


The Countenance of the Heart

by yarroway



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-11 13:46:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 28,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5628745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yarroway/pseuds/yarroway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things you can change.  Others you just have to find a way to live with. Set sometime in the fifth season.</p><p>Warnings: Although I don't think this fic merits any of the archive warnings, there is some violence and one instance of what some readers may view as dub-con.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Wilson had taken to leaving work at five whenever possible, but his Thursday meetings always ran late and this particular Thursday was no exception. He was tired, more than a day mostly spent seated could explain. He paused outside, taking the chance to feel the cold wind. It was better than the stale air he'd been breathing all day

Twilight had fallen while he’d been indoors, oblivious to the brief day. It was, he thought, a depressing metaphor for his life.

 _You’re pathetic_ , he told himself. _Enough already with the whining_.

Something hit him in the shoulder. Wilson turned around and, seeing nothing out of place, looked up. House waved from his balcony, grinning at him.

“I’ll be right down!”

Wilson’s heart sank. Now that he’d been caught he had to wait. It had been a week since he’d had dinner with House, though, and Wilson had missed him with a dangerous intensity.

 

***********************

 

Forty-five minutes later, Wilson was sitting in his place on House’s couch, eating pizza and wondering why he’d been reluctant to come. House was beside him and in fine form, mocking Taub and their patient, and Wilson wanted nothing more than to stay there forever.

“Haven’t seen much of you lately,” House commented, his voice deceptively mild.

Wilson shrugged, “It’s been busy.”

“Too busy for my soap opera? Too busy for lunch?”

Wilson turned his face away, unable to answer that. There was a sharp pain in his chest, and he remembered now why he’d been avoiding House.

“Or are you getting tired of me?” House asked in a voice that burned like acid.

“You acknowledge that’s possible?” Wilson asked in feigned disbelief, but House wasn’t stupid and Wilson knew he was in trouble.

The phone rang, and both men paused, waiting to hear who it was. A second later, Cuddy’s voice said, “House? Are you there?” A pause. “Listen, I have two tickets to a play tomorrow and no one to take. You want to go? Let me know. See you in the morning.”

Wilson smirked, “Lucky for you she’s aggressive.”

“Yeah.” House sounded unconvinced.

“You’ll be fine,” Wilson reassured, but looking at House’s face he wasn’t so sure. House hid it, but he was scared. “It’s just a play, one evening. Take it a step at a time.”

The fear faded a little from House’s face. There was a silence while he fidgeted. “You really think this is a good idea?” he asked.

Wilson shrugged. “It’s a date. If you have a bad time you don’t have to do it again.”

“What if I don’t have a bad time? Then I do have to do it again. Then I’m in a relationship.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Wilson replied. He was trying very carefully to tell only truths, because that was the best way he’d ever found to lie. “You like Cuddy,” he went on, “She’s hot, and she likes you.”

“She’s a second-rate doctor,” House complained.

“Compared to us, yes, and that’s why she went into administration. Which has nothing to do with dating her. Stop making excuses and go.”

House turned to him, “Why are you always pushing this?”

“I’m not pushing.”

“Now you’re lying. Why?”

Damn. He had no idea what to say to that, because he was lying. Fortunately his cell chose that moment to ring, telling him that little Alyssa Parker had been readmitted with a nasty fever. It took a few minutes to issue telephone orders for her care. When Wilson returned his attention to the room, House had gone.

Wilson turned to the piano, touching the keys soundlessly. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard House play. He missed it. His chest hurt again, a stabbing kind of pain over his heart from just thinking about it. His resolution to forego the self-pity had vanished. Life had been better when House had needed him. But his friend was improving now, and soon Cuddy was the one he’d need. Maybe when they moved into her place they’d have a guest room and would let Wilson crash there when his life got too pathetic to be borne.

House reappeared holding two ties, “Which of these ties would you like better if you were a narcissistic babe?”

Wilson’s chest tightened; for a moment he couldn’t speak.

“I am a narcissistic babe, and I don’t like either,” he said.

“You gave me that one.”

“That was for court, not for a date.” It was a flimsy excuse, but he didn’t want House to wear his gift on a date.

“Fine, then take me tie shopping in your closet tomorrow. Oh, wait. I remember now. It isn’t actually your closet, is it? It’s Amber’s. Why are you still there?”

“It’s a nice apartment,” Wilson temporized, but he was screwed, totally screwed, because House was going to hunt this diagnosis down with a magnifying glass and a shotgun.

“Compared to a hotel most are. Some people would find it morbid that you’re still there. Lucky for you I know the truth. You can’t let go.”

He remembered Danny yelling to be let go. No, he wasn't going to think about that now. Wilson closed his eyes and quickly changed the mental channel. Amber’s funeral flashed through his mind, but he didn’t want to think about that either. Wilson desperately, selfishly, unforgivably wanted things to stay the way they were. If he couldn’t keep Amber or Danny, couldn’t he at least keep House? But he knew the answer already. Nothing stays the same. Soon he’d have no one left, and he didn’t know what he’d do then. He didn’t want to think anymore.

“I haven’t heard you play in ages,” Wilson said, changing the subject. House, after a searching look at his face, sat on the bench and laid his fingers upon the keys. Piano playing called for bourbon. Wilson fetched them both glasses. He put the drinks on the piano and stood leaning against it, watching his friend draw music from his fingers. He loved House’s playing.

Wilson was listening, feeling a faint sense of peace bud within him, when someone knocked. Without pausing House said, “Get rid of them.”

Wilson opened the door, and found Cuddy.

She was wearing tight jeans, an even tighter low cut sweater, and a big smile that fled when she saw Wilson. “Oh! I just, uh…” she trailed off. The music stopped.

“Lisa Cuddy,” House said from behind Wilson. He’d stopped playing and risen to greet her.

House …had stopped playing.

Wilson knew when he was in the way. He grabbed his drink and took it with him to the bathroom, swallowed it in hasty gulps as the door swung shut behind him. He set the glass carefully beside the sink. His evening was ruined. Cuddy had followed him into his refuge. It was time to go. It was her turn now. He didn’t belong here anymore.

Laughter came from the living room, hers and his. An urge to smash the glass came to him, but he wasn’t about to repay House’s hospitality that way. It wouldn’t solve anything, or make this feeling go away. Wilson splashed water on his face instead, willing aside the hurt he felt. He needed to work on a mellow, smiling expression before he went back out there. He practiced in the mirror, but it was no use. The eyes that looked back at him were too bleak.

Wilson shook his head. He didn’t know who he thought he was kidding. They’d never even look at him. He was just reluctant to leave. Leaning on the sink, listening to the two of them talking in the other room, his unhappiness threatened to overwhelm him, demanded an outlet. The image of himself lying on the bathroom floor with his wrists cut came to him; he dismissed it. He was tired of pain. Tired of being alone. Wilson drew a sad face on the mirror with his greasy finger, right over his own image, so he wouldn’t have to see his face any more. It barely showed, but that didn’t matter because no one would care if they saw it, anyway.

Wilson used House’s facilities, paused before the door, and set his lips in a smile. In the living room Cuddy was occupying Wilson’s usual place on the couch. Wilson felt the evening was becoming really unfairly metaphorical now. As House handed Cuddy a drink, Wilson grabbed his things and walked out.

When he got home there was a message waiting from Danny. It was the last thing he wanted to do, but he spent two hours consoling his suicidal brother, and then another half hour trying to convince his parents that Middletown really wasn’t too far to drive to visit their youngest son. By the time he hung up, Wilson felt hollow inside. He decided that what he really wanted was to get stinking drunk. Amber had left vodka in the freezer, and Wilson had a carton of orange juice, and that was all it took.

There was nothing much on TV so Wilson watched idiots with power tools, wondering if House was watching too, sitting beside Cuddy and sharing his acerbic comments with her. Then he found a cooking show, and finally a horror movie. The juice had run out, but by then he was wanting his vodka straight up anyway.

Vaguely Wilson thought he should get to bed, but he couldn’t shake the futile, idiotic hope that House would call and he didn’t want to be sleeping too deeply to hear the phone. So he stayed awake, feeling the room spin around him, until finally sometime during the creature flick he passed out.


	2. Chapter 2

When Wilson woke again it was full daylight. A glance at the clock told him it was almost noon. No one had called. They probably hadn’t even noticed that he wasn’t in. If House missed half a day of work he had Cuddy and the fellows in his office asking what was wrong, but if punctual, reliable Wilson didn’t show no one even called to find out if he was dead.

Torn between going in and staying home, Wilson remembered that tonight was Tie Night. Which sounded like a good enough reason to blow off work, because after last night Wilson strongly suspected that Tie Night had been cancelled. If he went in he’d be stuck wondering if they were still on, and if he asked House he’d have to hear the inevitable sarcastic answer, or, worse, find that House had forgotten about their plans. He didn’t think he could stand that.

Better to stay here and continue his bender.

Wilson called Brown, pleaded the flu, and redistributed what needed to get done. He wanted to take a shower, but he knew that was a bad idea so he didn’t. Instead he went out for supplies, splashing water on his face in the grocery store’s restroom. A really good pity party was exactly what he needed. That meant DVDs, lots of booze, and junk food.

 

***************

 

It turned out he needn’t have gotten the food. Wilson had no interest in eating. The movies were a bust too. What he really wanted was live piano, but he wasn’t going out. He tried tuning his radio to a jazz station, but it wasn’t the same, so he turned it off and played his iPod instead.

By late afternoon the vodka bottle had been emptied, and the Scotch was hot on its heels. He’d gone past the nicely buzzed state into the hopelessly drunken state, and was pacing himself to avoid passing out or puking, neither of which he enjoyed. The coffee table was a mess of DVDs, potato chips, bottles and glasses, but for once Wilson didn’t give a damn. It was then he heard House’s distinctive knock. Wilson staggered to the door. It occurred to him that he was wearing the same clothes he’d worn to work yesterday and slept in last night. He gave his shirt a brief pat to settle the wrinkles, then gave it up as impossible. He opened the door.

House held his backpack aloft. “They told me you were sick so I thought I’d come over and play doctor,” he said, eyes taking in everything. “Apparently Brown was confused as to your malady. You seem to have started the party without me.”

Wilson felt a brief flash of shame, till he remembered that this was House, the drug addicted doctor who often came in at the crack of noon and had once taken LSD on the job. His chest felt tight, but the numbing haze of alcohol held that feeling at enough of a remove that he didn’t mind.

“Come on, sit down before you fall down,” House added impatiently, taking Wilson by the elbow and steering him to the couch, while Wilson grabbed on to the furniture to avoid a fall. House poured himself a drink and raised his glass to Wilson.

“What are we drinking to?” House asked. “Getting drunk in the middle of a work day? Avoiding your best friend? Or is there something else?”

Wilson couldn’t answer, so he drained his glass instead. His chest tightened further, and now there was the razor edge of pain as well.

“Could it be jealousy?” House continued, swirling his drink and watching the whisky move. “You wanted Cuddy first.”

The pain gave a sudden burst, and without meaning to Wilson brought his hand up to rub his chest.

“You’re in pain,” House said in a very different voice, and grabbed Wilson’s wrist to take his pulse. He delved into his pack and gave Wilson a quick exam. “You aren’t having a heart attack,” he said, satisfied, “so why are you in pain?”

Great, now he was a medical mystery. That was about the only way he’d get House’s attention any more, and he didn’t want it. Not like that.

“I’m drunk,” Wilson answered bitterly. “I’m fine.” He shook his head, ashamed of the tone he was using. “I’m sorry.”

“I can see the first one, and I believe you mean the third, but the second is demonstrably false,” House said evenly, and Wilson was trapped in House’s gaze, trapped in this dead woman’s home, trapped in this dead life. Helpless to do anything else, he looked away. _This_ , he thought, _is a good time for another drink_. He poured it unsteadily, swallowed a good third of it while House watched.

“What’s going on?” House asked, as gently as Wilson had ever heard him speak. He was losing this, losing House, and it was intolerable. He took a shaky breath, suddenly close to tears because House still cared, if only for this afternoon, if only while Cuddy wasn’t there. For this moment he still had his friend.

House was looking at him expectantly. Wilson shook his head.

“I’m not fit for company. Go home. Have your date.” The anger in his voice surprised him. He added, more evenly, “Tell me about it later.”

“What is your deal with Cuddy?” House fired back.

Wilson’s chest gave a painful throb. He pressed his left hand against his heart, telling it to shut up already. These questions at least he could answer. “You want her. I want you to be happy. I don’t want you to be alone.” _Like me_ , he added silently.

“And you think I’ll be happy with her?” House went on.

“Yeah.” Wilson knew he could do this. He could deal with House’s problems while falling down drunk and battling his own unsolvable problems. He’d done it before. He kept his hand on his chest, though, because the tightness was still pretty bad.

“And how long,” House went on in his even tone, “do you think it will take before she and I break up?”

That got Wilson’s attention. In all the scenarios he had played out in his head, he had never thought their relationship might not last—if not forever, then for many years. “I know you, House,” he said. “You don’t let go of people. If you get attached, you stay attached. You won’t break up with her.”

“You don't know that. It might not work. In fact it probably won't. I don’t want to play daddy. Or she might break up with me. We're both hotheads. Plus she’s my boss. How well do you think that will work? More to the point, what’s your angle? I’ve been wondering why you are throwing us together. Then when I got here and found you drunk I thought you were jealous. You wouldn’t want to tell me that, so it explains the avoidance and it explains that black cloud that’s been following you around the last few weeks. But now… I don’t think so. So what is it?”

_What the hell_ , Wilson thought. Could the truth hurt more than this did? He swallowed Scotch, taking a deep mental breath.

“I’m not jealous of you,” he confessed. “I’m jealous of her.”

House was silent, clearly waiting for an explanation.

Wilson drained the last of his glass, filled it again and took a long drink. “Now I know how you felt about Amber. This thing could work, and it’s already taking you away from me. I want you to be happy. I really do. But not…I want…” Wilson trailed off, unable to articulate either what he feared or what he wished. 

House said nothing, but his jaw was clenched and he wouldn’t look up. Wilson began rubbing at his chest again, because it hurt, and every second House didn’t meet his eyes the tightness inside him grew. The moment stretched on.

_Idiot!_ Wilson thought. He’d pushed too far. It was one thing for House to be obsessive about him, that wasn’t threatening, but for him to be obsessive about House? That was one of those things House couldn’t handle. He’d been avoiding this conversation because he knew it wouldn’t go well, and now here he was having it anyway. It should be no surprise that it hadn’t gone well. In a moment, he knew, House would shut down. He would leave.

Wilson had a flash of Danny then, fighting against the restraints. His heart gave a lurch and suddenly the pain was intense. Wilson heard himself moan. House must have heard him too, because he was holding Wilson’s wrist, trying to pry his hand away from his chest.

“Why are you in pain?” House demanded, frustration and fear in his voice. “Wilson! Why are you in pain?”

Wilson tried to tell him it was just his heart breaking, but he couldn’t speak. A weight was upon his chest, crushing him.

“It’s got to be anxiety,” House muttered, hands and eyes cataloging symptoms. “It’s not physical”.

Wilson’s chest was unimpressed with this diagnosis. The pain was awful. He couldn’t take a full breath. His heart felt like it was going to pound its way out of his chest. If this wasn’t a heart attack, it sure felt like one.

“Breathe,” House ordered, “deep and slow.” He put his hand on Wilson’s shoulder, holding him up, watching his chest rise and fall. He took Wilson’s pulse with his other hand. “I said slow!” he yelled, and Wilson felt every last muscle contract. Breathing hurt, but God, he wanted air. His left hand was pressed over his heart, where the pain was centered, where it felt like someone had parked a bus, and his right hand was knotted in House’s shirt.

“It’s just a panic attack,” House said. “It feels like your heart but it isn’t. You just need to calm down. Will you at least try to breathe slowly?”

Wilson tried. He couldn’t think any more, but he tried to obey, to slow his shallow, panting breaths into something calmer. The air still shuddered out of him, hard and hurtful. He tried to slow its pace. Instead the pain in his heart worsened, blinding him. He heard sounds little moaning sobs, and realized they were coming from him. Wilson was doubling over, falling as the sounds got louder and his heart shuddered frantically, like thunder, like it was about to explode.

House grabbed Wilson by the arms. “Listen to me,” House said. “You want reassurance? Fine. You matter to me. You matter.”

The pain receded enough that he could see again, breathe a little again. House’s hands were clamped on his arms, holding him up. “Now calm down, you idiot. I’m not letting you go anywhere. Just calm down.”

The tightness dissolved. Grateful, Wilson sucked down lungful after lungful of air. He felt his muscles unclench and his breathing even out. The chest pain receded. House’s grip loosened, then fell away. Wilson leaned back against the couch, exhausted and shaken. House looked shaken too, but now he had that look he got when he was putting a puzzle together.

“I’ve known you through two wives and more girlfriends than I can remember. You knew me through Stacy, twice, and Cameron, and a bevy of hookers. So what makes this different?”

Wilson could only shrug, too spent to speak. He didn’t know either.

“All right,” House said. “I need to think. Can you sit here quietly while I do that? Without drinking, because I want you conscious.”

Wilson shrugged again. Passing out seemed like an attractive option, and possibly an inevitable one.

House frowned. “Not good enough. Here, did you already watch these?”

“No,” Wilson managed to say.

“Interesting. Why not?”

“Boring.”

“You think Cameron Diaz is boring?” House put the DVD on with a faintly scandalized air. Wilson tried to focus on the screen. The room was spinning fast around him. Wilson felt very alone. He scooted over into the DMZ that House kept between himself and everyone else. That got him a sharp look, but House allowed it.

“I’m not used to you being the needy one,” he said.

“You have no idea,” Wilson replied.


	3. Chapter 3

The thumping of House’s cane was a comforting sound, a House-is-working sound. It made Wilson feel infinitely better. The clock said there was barely time left for House to get dressed and pick up Cuddy if they were going to dinner before the play. Wilson studied House’s outfit—beige cords, black t-shirt, blue button down and navy blazer. He thought he had a tie in the bedroom closet that would work.

Wilson stood and remembered that he was very, very drunk when he fell back onto the couch. House gave him an annoyed look. Wilson tried again, more slowly this time, and with handholds. He made it around the couch, but that left the empty expanse from sofa to bedroom door. Wilson took a few staggering steps and found himself clinging to the media cabinet.

“I haven’t seen you this drunk in seven years,” House said, amused. Wilson raised his middle finger and waved. He decided his best bet was to get to the wall, then follow it to the bedroom door. Taking careful aim he pushed off, tripped over his own feet and stumbled towards the wall, which reared up out of nowhere to smack him. He landed ass first on the floor.

House laughed out loud. Wilson leaned on the wall, using it for balance as he headed for the bedroom. House was heading towards him, but Wilson waved him off, because he was fine. And he was, until the room tilted and sent him sprawling the other way.

“Whoa, whoa”, House said, catching Wilson around the ribs. “You’re a menace. Let’s try this together.” House put his arm around Wilson and, using his cane as leverage, managed to keep them both upright. They staggered into the bedroom. Wilson made it to the closet and pawed at the door till it opened. He found the tie he wanted.

“Here,” he said, waving it at House.

House took it. “You want me to wear a tie?”

“You’re the one who wanted to steal my ties.”

House frowned. “You think I’m going to the play.”

“Of course you’re going. Why wouldn’t you go? Don’t you dare back out now.”

“So now you want me to go? Or is that another lie?” House took the tie from Wilson’s hand and tossed it onto the bureau. Wilson felt relieved that House was canceling his date, and then guilty. He was a crappy friend.

“I want you to be happy,” Wilson said.

“But it makes you unhappy.”

Wilson shrugged, tried for lightness “I’m a selfish bastard.”

“Pot," House said. "Kettle."

“Don’t let me ruin this for you.”

House sighed. “Come here,” he said, and took Wilson’s arm. House navigated them back to the sofa. The movie had ended. House dumped Wilson on the couch and settled himself beside him. Wilson’s head was still swimming.

“I am _so_ drunk.”

“You’re miserable and scared out of your mind,” House corrected.

Wilson rolled his eyes, “That makes me feel so much better.”

House ignored him, “The interesting question is, why? You see Cuddy as a threat. You didn’t react this way to any of the other women I ogle. So either this is different, or something else has changed.”

“Seriously, you need to get moving. Don’t keep her waiting.”

“Seriously? No. I told you I don’t care about that.”

“House, please. Don't--”

“Please what?” House snapped. “Please leave you here, drunk and depressed and alone, to have another panic attack and let your heart vibrate itself into pieces? Or to drink yourself into unconsciousness so you can choke to death on your own vomit? No, thank you, I don’t think I will.”

“Please don’t let me ruin this for you. I told you I’m a selfish bastard. Now you be selfish. Do what you want to do.”

Wilson thought he’d won with that, but House meet his gaze. “All right,” he said, and opened his phone. 

“Cuddy,” he said. “Turns out I can’t make it tonight. Enjoy the play anyway. Bye.”

Wilson sank further down into the couch. House had just let go of his date, one he’d been wanting for years. Wilson had used to be annoyed when House would sabotage his relationships, but now he’d done the same to House in a much more major way.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

“Oh shut up. If you were me,” House said, “that would have been a test, and I’d have passed. But you don’t test people. I wish you’d tell me what is going on.”

“I did,” Wilson said. He’d told House everything. “You--never really answered.”

House frowned at him. “If you didn’t just hear me tell you that I’m not throwing our friendship out the window for sex, great sex, or looove, then you’re drunker than I thought.”

There was a thin knife in his chest again. “You won’t need me anymore,” Wilson told him, looking down at the sofa. “Not after you have her. You won’t need me to give you a ride in the mornings, or to have breakfast with. You won’t need me to go bowling with you, or distract you when you can’t stop your brain from churning, or to be your conscience. You won’t need me for company in the evenings. She’ll do all that. She’ll have you all day and all night, and I’ll see you at lunch a few times a week and you’ll steal my fries to convince us both that we’re still friends.”

House frowned. “No wonder you’re depressed. I haven’t even gone on one date and you already have me pussy whipped.”

“You can’t have a relationship if you don’t put the other person first. Believe me, I’ve become intimately acquainted with many of the myriad ways to do it and that one's near the top.”

“Right up there with sleeping with her best friend?”

“Nah, sleeping with her sister is better.”

House snorted. “Gotta pee,” he said, rising.

 

***********************

 

House knew something was seriously wrong. Not Wilson’s-cheating-on-his-woman wrong or even Wilson’s-sleeping-with-his-patient wrong, but _wrong_ , wrong. House knew he was missing pieces of this puzzle, and he intended to find them. He searched through Wilson’s medicine cabinet, looking for antidepressants or any other clue, but it was bare of interesting drugs. He looked under the sink, but there was nothing relevant there either. Well, the bathroom had been a target of opportunity, anyway. He hadn’t really expected to find anything here. If Wilson were on drugs or medications, they’d more likely be in the bedroom or in his pocket, and House was just brimming with ways to get into both. He took a quick last look around the bathroom. There was something shiny on the bathtub rim. He stepped cautiously into the bathtub and leaned over to see.

There, tucked partly behind the shampoo, lay a kitchen knife.

_Oh fuck no_. Fear ran through his veins like ice water. _Wilson, damn it_!

House had noticed Wilson’s decline, but he hadn’t realized its extent. How had he misjudged so badly? House knew he could be self-involved, but this—this was a new low. How long had Wilson been so bad? Damn Wilson for always hiding everything, anyway. How bad exactly was he? House didn’t know. Well, he knew the two most important things: Wilson was suicidal, and was willing to let House in. It wasn’t too late, and House was not going to allow anything to happen to Wilson.

_Do something_ , House told himself fiercely. _Keep him alive by treating the symptoms. Figure out what’s causing his depression and fix it. But do something_. He ran through the usual options: teasing, distraction, silent gestures of support, and manipulation. House wasn’t satisfied with any of them, and it took him several seconds to realize why. All of that was part and parcel of their normal, everyday friendship, and while that worked most of the time it was not working now. So doing something was the wrong answer. He needed to do something different. House had no idea what, but Wilson knew, on some level, what he needed. One way or another, House would get it out of him. 

He took a deep breath as he walked back down the hall. It was time to go all in.


	4. Chapter 4

Wilson watched House come back down the hall. He looked upset. He’d probably gone back over their talk while he was peeing and now he was angry about some obscure part of it. Great.

“So are we okay here?” Wilson asked as House rejoined him. In spite of himself there was a raw sound in his voice that he didn’t like at all.

“We are,” House said. “You aren’t.”

“It doesn’t bother you that I’m jealous?” Wilson asked. He felt hollow and empty. Had he pushed House away? He tried to wear a poker face, but he needed this answer and he knew it showed.

“It didn’t bother you when I was jealous of CB and the others.” House replied. Wilson raised eloquent eyebrows and House grinned. “Well, not that much,” he added, and Wilson had to agree.

“Amber bothered you more than the rest of them. You knew I loved her. You knew it was real.”

“No, I knew she was a cut-throat bitch who’d stop at nothing to get what she wanted—and that was you all to herself.”

Wilson considered that. “I don’t think that’s entirely true. Be that as it may, has it occurred to you that Cuddy may do the same thing?”

“Cuddy likes you.” House said.

“Cuddy uses me,” Wilson corrected. “She doesn’t like me or dislike me. She doesn’t give a damn.”

House was silent, thinking so hard Wilson could practically see the gears turning in his head. He offered, “She backs you up all the time.”

“Does she? She voted me off the board for Vogler. She voted you out too, but only after it was clear she had to. With me she went right along. Her big concern over Tritter was whether I had damaged the hospital’s reputation or not. She didn’t care what I was going through. She didn’t even care about my patients. She only cared about her hospital and you, her best doctor. She comes to me when she wants something from you. I’m her errand boy. I’m a convenient confidante because that way she can get your attention without seeming to want your attention. She came to me over Amber, but that was something she felt she should do, not something she felt. She’s your opposite, House. You put up walls to keep people away because you know you’ll get attached. She tears them down to pretend to care, but she really doesn’t. She just knows that part of managing people is giving the illusion of concern. Inside she’s every bit as cold as you pretend to be. Maybe that’s the attraction.”

“I don’t think that’s entirely true,” House said, and Wilson winced as his own words were lobbed back at him, “and I don’t think that on a regular day you do either. What’s interesting is that you believe it now.”

Wilson watched House think. His head was aching, but the room was spinning more gently. He was starting to feel less drunk.

He surprised himself by saying, “There’s more.”

“And you said you told me everything,” House prodded.

“I meant everything about us, about me dealing with you and Cuddy. This…” He paused, struggling for words. “This is different.”

“I’m sure you didn’t tell me everything about that either. But go on. Is this about a woman, your parents, or Danny?”

“Danny,” he breathed. It hurt even to say the name. House turned to face Wilson, leaning closer in, and Wilson felt himself do the same. “He’s having a hard time,” he added inadequately. There were no words he could think of to describe what it was like. “The medicine’s not working very well any more. Or maybe he’s spitting it out. He’s been increasingly unpredictable the last several weeks. He keeps wandering in to the women’s bedroom. He wants a girlfriend but he won’t talk to the women. He had me send him new bedding because the government was bugging his pillows. He’s not eating much because he’s afraid the food is poisoned. They try with him, but it just seems to be a matter of time. He’s barely holding on. In the last five weeks I’ve been up there every weekend, and I can’t get through to him. He calls me almost every night, and the shortest call I’ve had with him in the past month was--” Wilson stopped abruptly, remembering that call. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to regain some control.

“Was what?” House asked, eyes never leaving Wilson’s face.

Wilson looked down. He remembered Danny screaming to be left alone to die, could hear it all still, echoing inside his head.

“Wilson?”

Danny had ranted at him at the end, calling him a bastard and other, less pleasant names as the home's staff broke through the door.

“Wilson,” House said again.

Pain welled up. The memories pressed against him, almost as tangible as House. His brother’s voice, desperate, pleading with Wilson to let him die. Danny hadn’t wanted to live this way anymore. Wilson couldn't let him go but he did understand. He didn’t want this anymore either. He wanted it all to end.

House’s hands, warm and strong and present, closed around Wilson’s. The touch drew him out of himself, a lifeline to the only person on the planet who might give a crap about him. _Don’t let go_ , he wanted to say. He was teetering on the edge of a cliff and if House let go he’d fall.

“What happened?” House asked.

Wilson loosed a breath and willed himself to speak. He stared down at their hands. “Danny broke into the kitchen and stole a knife.”

“When?”

“Last Friday night. He took it to the bathroom, barricaded the door, filled a sink with warm water, and slit his wrist. Then he called me. Told me what he’d done and said goodbye. I kept him on the line and called the staff on my cell. They broke into the men’s room and dragged him out of there. Gave him first aid until EMS arrived. He cried the whole time. He wanted me to let him die.” Danny had been furious with him for interfering, for forcing him to live in pain. The knife was back, sharp in Wilson’s throat, making each word hurt as he uttered it. “He cursed at me for saving his life.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” House asked.

“You were in isolation with the Ebola patient. Cuddy wouldn’t allow any calls through.”

“I told her it wasn’t Ebola.” House said. “And you weren’t going to get it through the phone!”

“She was just trying to protect you. Anyway I wanted you to focus on not getting Ebola rather than on my lousy life.”

House looked angry but dropped the argument. “How is he now?”

“The doctors changed his mood stabilizer and increased the antipsychotic. It’s too soon yet to tell if it’s working.” Wilson paused. He didn’t know how to explain the next part, if House could have any idea what it had been like. “I went to see him at Mercy. He was out of control, strapped in four point restraints and a Posey belt. He was completely psychotic, ranting about alien mind control rays. He looked like the psycho you see in the thriller movies, the one sneaking up behind you with a knife. He—he’s my baby brother. I taught him to ski. I taught him to tie his shoes. When he realized it was me, he begged me to kill him.”

Wilson swallowed the tears he wouldn’t shed for the little boy he’d loved. He tried to rub his face, but House wouldn’t relinquish his hands. Wilson glanced at his friend’s face and was surprised at the concern naked in his eyes.

“I’m fine,” Wilson said quickly, looking away again. “I’m fine.” He drew a shaky breath. “Danny was discharged back to the psych. residence on Tuesday. He’s upset –very upset--that our parents haven’t come to see him. I’ve offered to drive them there. I’ve explained how much it means to him, but they just can’t face it. Last night he talked about suicide again. I—told him I don’t want him to do that." Wilson shook his head. It had been a stupid, inadequate thing to say. "He’s being evaluated today by the psychiatrist at the facility. I guess they didn’t send him back to the hospital, because otherwise I’d have heard something.” Wilson paused, “Damn! I should have called. I was too busy feeling sorry for myself to get my head out of my ass today. I am a selfish bastard.” He’d had been on the pity pot all day while his brother had real problems. Wilson was thoroughly disgusted with himself. “I’m acting like a spoiled, selfish child.”

House rubbed Wilson’s hands gently, an expression on his face Wilson had never seen before. He had no idea what House was thinking. “It’s after shift change,” House said. “Night staff won’t know anything, and you shouldn’t talk to Danny when you’re drunk. Leave it for now.”

“Yeah,” Wilson said bitterly. “Turns out I can wait till tomorrow to find out if my brother is alive.”

House spread his left hand over both of Wilson’s, and took out his cell. It was a measure of depth of his inebriation that Wilson did not immediately realize he was calling North Woods, the residence Danny was in. He was pretty sure Danny wasn’t really dead because someone would have called him. Probably.

“This is Greg House,” House said, and tightened his grip on Wilson’s hands as if he knew just how nervous Wilson was about this call. “Hi Gary. I’m just calling to check on Danny Wilson. Is he there? He is. On watch? Is …good, that’s good. Thanks a lot. Goodnight.”

House took Wilson’s hands again and held them in both of his own. House’s thumbs traced patterns over Wilson’s knuckles.

“He’s sleeping. They have him on close observation. It’s okay. He’s safe.”

Relief welled up in Wilson. “Thanks,” he told House. House didn’t answer, just held his hands. House seemed content to sit that way, which was more than weird for a man who rarely touched anyone unless it was to have sex. House holding his hands had gone from weird to awkward.

“I’m fine,” Wilson said, and gave House’s hands a squeeze. He began to pull away.

“Why can’t you admit it when you need me?” House asked, taking Wilson’s hands back between his own.

“I don’t need you," Wilson answered firmly, trying to get out of House’s grip.

“Yes you do,” House responded impatiently, and let go to point at him. “You already said so before. I said I wasn’t used to you being the needy one, and you said I had no idea. What could you mean by that except just how needy you were?”

“I don’t-”

“Why do you always hook up with needy care-takers, if not from some hope that, when you’re done taking care of them, someone will finally, for once in your life, take care of you?”

“That’s not why-”

“It is! Damn it Wilson, you can’t keep doing this!”

“He’s my brother. I have to take care of him.”

“And you didn’t tell me you were freaking out about Cuddy exactly why?”

“I want you to be happy.”

“You think I’ll be happy if you’re miserable?” House yelled. He put his face right in front of Wilson’s. “You need me! Is that really so hard to admit?  You do, don't you?"

Wilson turned away. House recaptured his hands, caged them in his own.

"Don't you," he repeated.

“Sometimes,” Wilson said softly, “yes.”

House leaned forward till their faces were almost touching. “I am not your brother,” he said in his quiet, intense voice. “I won’t leave if you need me, or some space from me. If you hurt me I’ll be pissed but I won’t crash and burn. I won’t crumble under your weight if you lean on me. I’m not your women, I don’t expect you to be perfect and I don’t want you to be. I’m not your parents, you can’t disappoint me. You can tell me if you need me. I won’t leave.”

Wilson stared at him. “Maybe--maybe I don’t want to have to tell you. Maybe I want to be seen. Maybe I want to be noticed. Maybe that’s the test.”

“I see you,” House said huskily. “I notice you. Now I want you to tell me what you need.” He moved closer, till their bodies were almost touching. Wilson swallowed hard. House had done what he wanted. Could he do the same?

Wilson didn’t know what he needed. He couldn’t think. He needed Danny to be okay, but that wasn’t ever, ever going to happen. He needed the sound of his brother’s screams to vanish from his head, but he didn’t think that was possible either. He wanted his parents to start taking some responsibility for Danny, wanted one of his marriages to have worked out, wanted one person in his life who could know him, really know him, someone to see and care when he was hurting. He wanted someone he could have a give and take with, who wouldn’t want things he couldn’t possibly give. Wanted someone who wouldn’t leave him alone, someone who wouldn’t bore him and who wouldn’t get bored with him after a few months when the new car smell faded from their relationship. He wanted someone he could have fun with and fight with and not have to worry about what he said to. Was companionship a need if he could live, however unhappily, without it? He remembered the feeling of his heart about to break apart within him, remembered how alone he’d been the last month as Cuddy kept House’s attention and Danny fell apart and no one anywhere even saw that Wilson was bleeding.

“I do need you,” Wilson said. House, moving with slow deliberation, put his hands on Wilson’s shoulders. “I need you,” Wilson said again, voice shaking, putting his arms around House. “I need you,” he whispered one last time, as House pulled him further in. He felt arms wrap close around him. He’d tried so damn hard. He’d given and given until there was nothing left, and it hadn’t helped at all. Danny and his parents still needed more, and Wilson was just empty inside, just used up.

“I can’t,” he told House, in a voice that cracked and broke. “I can’t.” Wilson couldn’t do anything for anyone anymore.

“Then don’t,” House said. House’s arms tightened around him. Wilson’s body gave a sob.

“I’m sorry,” Wilson said. “I can’t. I’m sorry.” House cupped his palm over the back of Wilson’s head, fingers stirring slightly in his hair. It was such a caring gesture that it overwhelmed him. Tears pricked in Wilson’s eyes, in his throat, and his body shook again. “I’m sorry." Sorrow surged up from within him, filled him, came pouring out. All he knew any more was that he was lost, and Danny was lost, and just breathing took all the strength he had left.

When the tears stopped Wilson expected House to push away, or make a sarcastic remark about his weakness. It never came. House was giving him what he needed, Wilson realized. Even though it had to make him uncomfortable. Wilson felt warmth blossom under his breastbone at that simple kindness.

“I can’t believe you’re letting me do this,” he said.

“I told you,” House murmured. “I won’t crumble. I won’t leave you alone.” His arm shifted on Wilson’s back. Being held, being touched by anyone, for any reason, would have made Wilson feel less alone. From House, though, it was different. Better, by light-years, because he loved House. But weird because they just didn’t do this, and that made it awkward too.

On the heels of that thought Wilson sat back. That unreadable expression was back on House’s face. “What’s wrong?”

“You have to ask? I’m worried about you. I’ve been watching you get more and more depressed. Last night you walked away without a word. Today you didn’t even come to work. You just sat here alone and drank all day.”

“Last night too,” Wilson told him.

“You’re scared and in pain. You’re self-destructing.” House pulled him back in, settling his arms firmly around Wilson.

 _Yes_ , Wilson thought. _Yes, that's exactly what I am_. On any other day Wilson thought he would resent anyone saying that to him, but not today. Today it was a relief to hear House say it. It was...freeing.

“I’m glad you came,” Wilson said, inadequately. He didn’t know how to tell House how much this all meant to him. “I don’t know how else to say it, but …” Overcome with a tenderness for House, he pressed a kiss to his head. It felt ridiculously good to lean on him. Wilson felt a hand stroke his hair, once, lightly, then House tightened his grasp, holding on.

 

*************

 

Wilson woke in the morning feeling smelly and filthy and like a large rodent had died in his mouth. He was badly hung over, yet in spite of his headache he felt better than he had in weeks. He felt up to facing the shower this morning. He wasn’t sure he could wash without waking House, but he figured that after two days and two nights in the same clothes, bathing and brushing his teeth would be a service to humanity. He’d forego the blow dryer though, seeing how nice House had been the night before.

Shaved and clean, Wilson put on a pot of coffee. Then he started cooking. Somewhere in the process House woke up, grunted at him, and limped heavily into the bathroom. By the time he got out Wilson had a breakfast on the table: French toast, bacon, syrup, and coffee.

House shoveled food into his mouth as if he hadn’t eaten yesterday. Wilson ate too, hungry for the first time in days. He'd missed cooking for someone. He'd missed having someone around.

“Can I move back in with you?” Wilson asked. “Just for a few days, maybe a week. Or two.”

House was silent, head tilted, with no expression on his face.

“I just need to get back on my feet,” Wilson explained sheepishly.

“Two weeks tops,” House said, and Wilson felt his heart sink. He’d overstepped. He’d be in the way.

“Never mind,” Wilson said, shifting away, but House caught his wrist and held on.

“Definitely not more than a month,” House added in his gravelly voice as though nothing had happened, “maybe three.”

House’s voice was neutral, but Wilson caught the glint in his eye.

“You bastard,” he said, pleased, and then flinched as Danny’s voice rose from memory to assail him. The hand on his wrist tightened, anchored him, and pulled him back to this room, this moment. Wilson took a breath and put the memory aside. House was watching him now with concern.

“I’ll move out when I damn well feel like it,” Wilson said.

House’s face creased into a broad, broad smile.


	5. Chapter 5

House sent Wilson into the bedroom to pack. It was interesting, how he’d responded to touch. House had always known that most people used touch to communicate, which meant it was just another way to lie. But it was fascinating, really, to watch Wilson react. During yesterday’s panic attack House had done everything right. He’d told Wilson what the problem was and what to do, and since Wilson was a doctor he’d known House was right so there wasn’t a confidence problem. Yet it hadn’t worked. House’s next choice of intervention was usually drugs, but he hadn’t had anything in his bag that wouldn’t be life threatening when combined with the sea of alcohol the idiot had drunk. With no other options barring a potentially job-ending call to 911, he’d attempted physical reassurance and it had begun working instantly. Since then he’d made it a point to utilize touch in his interventions with Wilson. House suspected that the stimulation was the key, not the person giving it, which might explain Wilson’s bed hopping. But he didn’t really know yet. What was truly startling was the intensity of Wilson’s response. His heart rate had dropped faster than a sedative would have worked. If that response was typical, he was going to have to send Cameron to engage in hug therapy with all his patients. Actually that would make an interesting study. He could give Cameron second authorship on it in exchange for doing the leg and arm work. And if the response wasn’t typical he could still make a case study of Wilson, though for House’s own good that would have to go unpublished.

House glanced at the clock. It was too early to call his former minion. Wilson was absorbed in packing, which House knew from experience would take him a good half hour, and breakfast was gone. This was the perfect time for a little more snooping. The fridge was barren. The crisper revealed aging apples, rotted cabbage and a moldy collection of tomatoes and peppers. The freezer had little more than ice cubes. The cupboards were emptier than usual, too. Wilson hadn’t been shopping or eating normally. The living room he’d seen yesterday, but he looked around anyway. It was messy. Wilson hadn’t been picking up after himself either. Making sure Wilson was occupied, House took a quick look at his laptop. Nothing obvious leaped out at him, but he didn’t have time to do a thorough job. Reluctantly he let that go. He’d have to get Wilson to bring the laptop with him to Baker Street. House moved back into the bathroom. The knife was still there. House had known there was no danger of Wilson killing himself while he had a guest. Yesterday he had toyed with the idea of confronting Wilson, but dismissed it. Wilson was barely coping as it was. House didn’t want to stress him further. He tucked the knife into his knapsack. He’d dispose of it when he got home. By the time they returned to this apartment it wouldn’t matter anymore if Wilson noticed the knife was gone.

But what would be any different in House's apartment than it was here? Danny would still be bonkers and Wilson's parents would still be Mr. and Mrs. Denial. All the same stressors would be there. House would be there too, of course...unless he got caught up in a case. House sighed. This plan sucked. If one of Wilson's pet patients crashed it might be enough to send him over the edge.

Okay, new plan. Wilson needed a break, and House was going to make sure he got one. It took him several minutes to find what he was looking for on the internet, but he managed it. While waiting for the confirmation he accidentally browsed through Wilson’s scheduler and email in the process. Oops. Fortunately Wilson didn’t have anything terribly urgent in his scheduler, because it wouldn’t make any difference to House if he had, but it would make Wilson cranky.

“Hey Wilson,” he called. “Pack for a vacation.”

That had the predictable result. A surprised and grumpy Wilson popped out of the bedroom.

“I can’t go on vacation,” he said. “I have to get to Middletown. I have to go to work next week. I already missed Friday. I have things to do.”

House gave his best pleading, pouting look.

“I mean it. I can’t just go haring off with you. I’m sorry. I have evaluations due.”

“Turn your evaluations in late. It always works for me.

Wilson sighed. "I have the committee meeting."

"The committee can meet without you.”

“I have patients!”

“And a staff of doctors who can see them in your absence. It’s only for two weeks.”

Wilson turned his face away. _Here it comes_ , House thought.

“I have–I thought you understood about Danny.”

House ambled over to Wilson, stood just a little too close. “I do. That’s why we’re taking our vacation in Middletown."

Wilson jerked as if he’d been struck. House put a steadying hand on his shoulder. Wilson looked away, fighting for composure. House tightened his grip. Wilson wasn’t usually so emotional, and it put House off his game. He shouldn’t have sprung this on him.

“I thought he might appreciate some visitors,” House explained. “And it would give you some more time to spend there. Besides, I hear there’s a great titty bar downtown."

Wilson snorted, but he didn't look up and beneath his hand House could almost feel him struggling for control.

“Well,” Wilson said finally, “How could anyone say no to two weeks in a nuthouse with you?”

“No one ever has before,” House replied. “Let’s get going. I need to stop in at the pharmacy before I pack.”

“You can’t possibly need a refill on your Vicodin,” Wilson said quickly.

“No, we need to fil your prescription for Ativan. I’m not risking another panic attack.”

Wilson gave a faint smile. They were back on track.

It didn’t take House long to pack, nor, when he stopped in at PPTH, to find Foreman in the lab trying to prove House’s latest diagnosis wrong (It wasn’t. The day House couldn’t tell chronic fatigue from Munchausen’s was the day to take him out behind the barn and shoot him), and make him write up vacation requests for himself and Wilson. They stopped at a gas station for House to pick up M&Ms for Danny. Wilson slept.

__

__**********_ _

 

House nudged Wilson when he was a block away from the residence. Wilson blinked sleepily. By the time House was gliding into a parking spot he was alert. House got out of the car. Wilson sat still, staring at the dashboard, a lost, hurt look on his face. House didn’t like it.

“Wilson!” he barked.

That jerked Wilson out of whatever dark thoughts he was having. He got out of the car but as they turned to go he stopped House.

“He’s not…” Wilson trailed off. “Don’t expect anything. He’s not the Danny you met,” he said finally. Wilson’s dark eyes met his, trying to say more, but Wilson couldn’t put it into words. House nodded. Wilson stood up a little straighter and led the way in to the facility.

House had no particular expectations. He remembered Danny Wilson as a slightly shorter, thinner and much less kempt version of his Wilson. His hair was long and, like the rest of him, unwashed. Although he was younger than Wilson he looked older. Years of homelessness would do that. Danny liked music—they’d bonded playing air guitar—and M&Ms, and his brother. House agreed with him on all three.

The few times House had been here, Danny had been sitting outside on the porch. Today, he was in his room, watched by one of the staff. Danny was awake, sitting on the edge of his bed, staring dejectedly at nothing. His left wrist was bandaged. The familiar stench washed over House; he tried to ignore it.

“Danny,” Wilson said, and moved forward. House tensed. What little he knew of their last visit made him wonder how welcome Wilson would be now, but it seemed Wilson knew his brother better than House did.

“Jimmy!” Danny said, and stood up. They embraced. “I missed you!”

Now that House had a better look he could see the changes. Danny was hallucinating. Even while he was talking with Wilson he’d turn his head to hear something that didn’t exist. He was happy to see them, though, and they got a foosball tournament going in the rec room that held Danny’s attention. He was happy to hear that they’d be around for a while, and asked them to bring him McDonald’s for lunch tomorrow.

“If you take your medicine, we will,” Wilson told him, and Danny frowned. “It’s just two pills,” Wilson went on. “Take them and we can get you McNuggets with all the sauces you want.”

“And fries and a shake,” House threw in.

“A vanilla shake?” Danny asked. Suitably bribed, he promised to swallow his medication. It wasn’t a promise House expected him to keep.

************************

House checked them into the Marriott that evening. The bellhop laid both sets of luggage on the closer of the two beds, took his tip, and left.

Wilson asked, “Which room is this, yours or mine?”

“Ours,” House said matter-of-factly, as if they shared rooms all the time.

Wilson frowned. “There is no way this hotel is full. Is this your way of telling me to put the rooms on my Visa?”

“Oh, come on, it’ll be fun,” House wheedled. “We can be roomies.”

Wilson shot him an annoyed look.

“We can stay up all night watching crap on cable, we can-“

Wilson sighed. “No.”

“You know you want to,” House shot back.

Wilson sighed again. “House, I’m tired. I feel like crap. What I want is to go to my room, unpack, and go to sleep. What I do not want is to play twenty questions with you as to why you’d want to be annoyed by my presence for the next two weeks and why I have to deal with an insomniac jerk of a roommate who’ll keep me up half the night and play juvenile pranks on me the other half.”

“Why else would I have booked us only one room? I have to have some fun while I’m here.”

Wilson’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “That was entirely too easy. Tell me the rest of it.”

House rolled his eyes and sighed. “If you have a panic attack alone in your room and die, everyone will yell at me for letting it happen. People don’t have any damn creativity in their insults anymore, and I don’t want to have to listen to everyone call me selfish over and over again for months after your funeral.”

“I’m fine,” Wilson said evenly. “Panic attacks don’t kill people, and I’m not going to have another one anyway. I’m going to get another room.” He turned to leave. House stepped in his way.

“Stop,” Wilson said. He sounded very annoyed. “Whatever game you’re playing stops now.” Wilson stepped to the side to get around House, but House moved with him. Wilson tried again, and again House blocked him. Wilson pushed him backwards so all House’s weight was his right leg. It wobbled beneath him. Wilson dodged around him and closed his hand on the doorknob.

“This isn’t a game!” House said desperately. He slammed his body against the door, creating a barricade.

“What is going on?”

“Stay here with me,” House demanded.

“Why?”

“Because I’m asking you to.” _Because you’re going to kill yourself if you don’t_. “No pranks. I won’t keep you up intentionally, and you can run the blow dryer anytime you like after I wake up.”

Wilson looked at him, surprised. “That’s—almost reasonable.”

It was way more than reasonable, but House wasn’t interested in an argument. “I just want you here. Okay?”

“The TV gets muted at eleven.”

House would normally argue or at least toss in a token insult, but he wasn’t going to give Wilson even the flimsiest excuse to back out. “Fine. Subtitles at eleven. And you stay.”

“Okay,” Wilson said, looking a little nonplussed. “I’ll stay.”

 

***********************

 

Over the next few days House had the leisure to continue to study Wilson and his reactions to physical contact. In the mornings they’d eat at the hotel buffet and head out. They’d found an easy, level trail running around a pond in the hills that House could take, and they often walked it. The Marriott they were staying in had a pool and hot tub so they could swim and soak at their whim. Simple touches worked for Wilson then—a nudge from House’s knee, a hand on his shoulder in passing, was generally all it took to keep Wilson on an even keel.

Afternoons they picked up McDonald’s for Danny and spent several hours just hanging out with him. House was bored out of his mind, but he was also unwilling to have Wilson out of his sight so he tagged along anyway, bringing papers and journals and his Gameboy. Wilson touched his brother often, hugging him in greeting and farewell every day. House had tried patting Wilson’s back once in front of Danny and gotten a frowning brush-off. House wasn’t sure whether Wilson was concerned about Danny’s reaction or about appearing needy, but physical contact in front of Danny was clearly out.

In the evenings, they went to dinner and then relaxed. There was a bar with an open piano a few nights a week. House had played there twice. There was a karaoke bar where Wilson got trashed enough to take a dare and sing Cyndi Lauper, and there were a selection of sports bars. Wilson was at his lowest in the evenings, because playing mommy to a nutcase half the day was draining. Wilson would sit close beside him in a booth, or lodge his knee against House’s own good one as they sat at a bar. He never let his guard down while they were out, but when they got back to the room House would watch the smile fade from his face. He'd plead tiredness and go to bed early, lying awake and silent in the darkened room.

As the days passed, Wilson improved. He stayed up a little later. His faked smiles got a little brighter. He startled House one evening by giving him an impromptu shoulder rub, and again one morning with a little pat on the arm. House endured these interludes with as little thought as possible.


	6. Chapter 6

Five days after they arrived, everything went to hell.

When they got to North Woods, Danny was sitting inside with Naomi the social worker and Pedro the residence’s supervisor.

“What’s going on?” Wilson asked.

“Danny has been calling your parents. He’s concerned that he hasn’t heard from them,” Naomi told them. Before Wilson could say anything, Danny grabbed him by the arms.

“When are Mom and Dad coming?” he asked.

“They’re not,” Wilson said gently, looking like he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him.

Danny’s grasp tightened and Wilson winced. The social worker sat a short distance away. Pedro was on his feet, removing his watch. The two other staff members were circling nearby, trying to look unobtrusive.

 _Agitation_ , House thought, and, _psychosis_. Put together those words meant Bad Things.

‘They aren’t coming this weekend?” Danny was asking, sounding hurt.

“Your parents aren’t so young anymore,” the social worker tried. “It’s a long trip for them.”

“They could call!” Danny shouted at her. “Why don’t they call?”

“Danny,” Wilson began.

“I call them, but they’re always too busy for me. Mom says she’ll call me later but she never does! They don’t love me! They’ve been infiltrated! They aren’t my parents!”

Danny broke away from Wilson. He grabbed a chair and hurled it across the room.

“Danny, calm down,” Pedro said, getting to his feet. The two staff drifted closer. Danny kicked a table over and grabbed another chair. Wilson, seeing what was happening, idiotically got right in the way. He grabbed the chair Danny was hefting.

“Danny,” Wilson said, and took the chair from him and put it gently back down. House stood uneasily on the sidelines. This wasn’t going to end well.

“I’m your brother,” Wilson said, which would have annoyed the crap out of House but Danny seemed to be hearing him. Wilson put a hand on Danny's shoulder. “I love you. And I’ll tell you the truth, but you have to listen.”

Danny stepped back, the craziness evident on his face.

“Tell me, then!” he yelled. He grabbed Wilson and shook him, hard. Wilson moved back, away from his brother, but Danny moved with him till Wilson was trapped in a corner. Danny got right in his face, his hands clenched on Wilson’s biceps. “Tell me where they are!” Wilson tried to maneuver out of the corner, but Danny was in the way.

“Tell me! Tell me!” Danny shrieked.

Wilson’s face was a mask of calm. “You’re ill. Some people have trouble handling it when someone they love is ill. They don’t know what to do. They feel sad. They feel guilty. They are afraid they will say something to make it worse. Mom and Dad love you very much, but they’re afraid. When they think of you hurting, they hurt too. They aren’t ready to come see you yet.”

Danny stared at Wilson. “They aren’t ready?” he asked. He looked devastated. Then that devastation was replaced by anger. Danny swung at Wilson, hitting his stomach. Wilson doubled over.

“You’re supposed to visit your family,” Danny yelled. “They’ve been replaced! They're aliens. You tried to trick me. I hate you! I hate you!” He drove a flurry of blows at Wilson. Pedro and the staff grabbed Danny, but Wilson was unable to move away. With his arms trapped, Danny kicked instead. There was no angle House could trip Danny at without also tripping the staff members grappling him, nor would Wilson forgive him if he were to beat Danny off with his cane.

Then one of the staff got Danny’s legs out from under him and they all went down in a pile.

The staff arranged themselves on Danny, who was struggling in silence against them and trying to bite. Wilson stood still, hunched over himself, watching. He had a shocked look. House wanted to pull Wilson away from this, the sight of his brother being held down on the nuthouse floor, breathing curses and trying to bite the hands the held him, but House knew Wilson wouldn’t leave his brother. Instead he dragged a chair over for Wilson, and wordlessly seated the other man in it. House stood close beside him. Wilson made no response to any of it. His focus was entirely on his brother.

Ten minutes into the restraint, Danny stopped fighting.

“I’m sorry I hit you,” he said to Wilson. “I should never have hit you.”

“It’s all right, “Wilson said with eerie calm. “I understand”.

“I know you love me, Jimmy. That’s why you should have let me kill myself that night. I’d be out of your way and the aliens couldn’t hurt you anymore.”

“It would hurt me to lose you,” he answered.

“Kill me,” Danny begged, and started to cry. Wilson’s hand closed on House’s forearm. “Please, Jimmy. I don’t want to live like this anymore. I've got nothing in my life. I've got no future, just residences and hospitals and I hate all of it. You’re a doctor; you know how to do it right. If you love me, please!”

Pedro interrupted before Wilson had to make some sort of response to that. “No one’s dying, Daniel. You are lucky, you need to appreciate what you have. You know how many people would love to have a brother to care about them like you do?”

Danny’s moment of clarity had ended, though, and he began shrieking about the aliens who’d murdered his family and taken their place. Wilson sat, silent and still, as his brother struggled. His grip on House’s forearm remained, tight enough to feel but not tight enough to hurt, a typical measured Wilson response. House wondered what it was hiding.

The ambulance came twenty excruciating minutes later. They strapped Danny to a stretcher and took him to Mercy. When they’d pulled away, Pedro tried to make eye contact with Wilson.

“I’m sorry you had to be here for that,” he said. Wilson didn’t even look up. House shook his head and motioned Pedro away, and Pedro went.

They had the common room to themselves then. House shifted his weight around. His leg was hurting badly. At some point in the chaos Wilson had released him. He sat now unmoving, his elbows on his knees, staring at nothing. House had no idea what to do with him. He shook two Vicodin into his hand and swallowed them. The sound of the pills rattling got Wilson’s attention.

“You shouldn’t be standing here like that,” he said, standing up. “Let’s go.”

Moving was, if possible, more painful than standing. They walked slowly to the car.

“Could you drive?” Wilson asked, “Because I--shouldn’t.”

“Just give me a few minutes for the drugs to kick in,” House said, not wanting to know why Wilson thought he shouldn’t drive, not with this searing pain in his leg, not while they were out in public. Wilson helped him into the driver’s seat. When House could move without wanting to scream, he drove them back to the hotel.

When they got to their room, Wilson went straight to the sofa and sat staring at the blank TV screen in front of him. House found Terminator showing on cable, and seated himself beside Wilson. He wished they had a piano here. That would have softened Wilson up sooner than violence and explosions. Wilson sat completely still, expressionless, holding himself rigidly together, holding everything in. House waited, keeping half an eye on his roommate, but an hour into the film Wilson hadn't moved, hadn't so much as changed his expression. House nudged him. “Hey.”

No response. That was okay, House was good at getting Wilson’s attention, and he was a past master at being annoying. He waited until Linda Hamilton was back on screen and nudged Wilson again.

“Hey.”

Still nothing. House switched tactics, getting a bag of Cheetos from his stash and crunching them during the dialogue. When the bag was empty he crumpled it loudly and tossed it into Wilson’s lap, getting orange crumbs all over Wilson’s shirt and jeans. House wished Wilson had been wearing a suit because he’d have gone ballistic over that, but House had to work with what he had. Wilson glanced down at himself but didn’t speak or move, not even to brush the crumbs away.

“Hey,” House said again, nudging Wilson with his shoulder harder than before. Wilson hid his face in his hands.

House had hoped to rile Wilson, but any reaction was better than no reaction. He stretched his hand across the back of Wilson’s neck. Wilson didn’t react to that, but he didn’t pull away either. House waited a few minutes but Wilson's non-reaction continued.

House let loose a long fart. Again Wilson didn’t react. This wasn’t working. House needed to up the ante. He got up and limped to the cooler he’d brought for the trip. Several cans of soda lay in the half-melted ice inside. House took a water glass and scooped about a third of a cup of ice and water into it. Wilson’s face remained in his hands. House went back to the sofa, put his hand back on Wilson’s neck, and moved his collar. He dumped the glass’s contents down Wilson’s back.

“Ah!” Wilson jumped up. “What the hell did you do that for?” he demanded.

House smirked and spread his arms. “I was curious.”

“Curious?” Wilson shouted. “Curious! You wanted to know if ice is cold? If water is wet? What the hell did you do that for?”

“Look at you,” House mocked. “Like a little cold water is the worst thing to happen to you today.”

“House!” Wilson yelled, red-faced and furious.

“You’re not mad about this,” House said dismissively. “You’re pissed at Danny.”

“My brother,” Wilson said, “has an illness. He can’t help the way he behaves. What’s your excuse?”

“He was in control when he hit you, and you know it.” House said. “He was angry, and he hit you because he was angry.”

“I can’t believe you,” Wilson replied. “You want me to be angry at Danny? My brother who thinks our parents are aliens? Who in a moment of pain and rejection took his feelings out on the only family member available? The one hallucinating and suicidal right now, strapped in restraints in a psych. ICU? Who nonetheless apologized to me while pinned to the floor by three gorillas and hearing voices? That brother?”

“No,” House said impatiently. “I don’t want you to become angry at him. I want you to admit you are angry at him.”

“I’m not. How could I be?”

“Because he hurt you!” House yelled. “Because for the past several weeks, he’s done nothing short of torture you. And when someone does that, we react. It’s natural. We get angry. Maybe you don’t want to feel that way. Maybe you think you shouldn’t feel that way. Either way the feeling is there.”

“I’m not like you. I don’t hold things against people that way.”

“You’re exactly like me. You just don’t want to say so. You’re furious at Danny. But you understand his problem and you love him, so you forgive him. Problem is, that doesn’t make all that anger and hurt any less real.” Wilson was staring at him, mouth slightly open, listening. “That’s why you’ve been locked away inside yourself all afternoon. You’re pissed. You feel guilty about that night in med. school and you’ve sworn to yourself that you won’t fail your brother again, but he’s demanding and he’s hurting you and you’re angry. You can’t turn that feeling off but you can’t face it either.”

“What-” Wilson asked. The words cut off before he could get them out. His hand, stilled in midair, made a futile gesture. “What do you want from me?”

“The truth.” House stepped in to Wilson’s space, crowding him. Wilson gave ground. “Tell me the truth.”

“The truth,” Wilson said slowly, backing away “I… don’t… know what that is.” He paused, considering. “Yes, of course I’m hurt,” he said, nothing but grief in his voice. “I hate seeing-“ Wilson broke off, put a hand to his face. His breath came in ragged gasps. House grabbed his wrist and dragged his hand down.

“No hiding,” House demanded. “Tell me the truth.”

Wilson turned away. House followed, stepped back into Wilson’s space. “Tell me,” he demanded again.

“I don’t know! I don’t know!” Wilson yelled, backing farther away.

“You can’t get mad at Danny so you need to get mad at me. Go ahead. Tell me the truth.”

Wilson rounded on him. “Leave me alone!” he shouted.

“The truth,” House said again, moving in.

“Leave me alone,” Wilson warned, backing up again, voice low and aggressive.

“Tell me,” House demanded, stepping forward again. Wilson backed one last step into the corner. It was the same position Danny had pushed Wilson into earlier. House leaned in, his face inches from Wilson’s, “Tell me! Tell me!”

“No!” Wilson shouted, and surged forward. He twisted, throwing House hard into the wall. Wilson pushed himself onto House, holding the larger man in place with the press of his body, and raised his fist. House had a moment of pure fear. He hadn’t thought Wilson would hit him, but there was a darkness in his eyes that made House cringe. This wasn’t the Wilson House knew, with his careful consideration of everyone and everything. This was going to hurt.

Wilson slammed his fist into the wall. House flinched. Wilson punched again. Plaster crumbled. At the fourth blow Wilson stopped, holding his left hand and breathing hard. His face was filled with wrath. House swallowed. Wilson out of his mind with anger was a surprisingly scary sight. Wilson wasn’t over this, and he was right in House’s space, panting, flooded with adrenaline and high on rage.

Wilson gave a sound that was almost a growl. House felt rough hands grab his face. Lips and teeth pressed against him. There was a moment of free fall, when House wasn’t sure whether Wilson was attacking him or kissing him. Maybe Wilson wasn’t either. Then Wilson grabbed him hard, pulled House in, and kissed him like a drowning man seeking oxygen. All House was aware of were lips moving on his, a tongue thrusting into him, and a plunging terror. Wilson’s grab had unbalanced him. If Wilson shifted just a little House would tumble to the floor and not be able to catch himself. He couldn’t think like this. He couldn’t stand, couldn’t hold himself up. Panicking, he tried to pull back. Wilson let go. House got both feet under himself, feeling unsteady. Wilson put a hand to either side of House and leaned in. House’s mouth went bone dry.

“Yes,” Wilson hissed. “I’m pissed as hell at Danny. I wish he’d died. I wish he’d never called me that night and just bled out. His life is shit and I can’t do anything for him. No one can do anything for him. Our goddamn parents gave up and abandoned him. They don’t want to be bothered. It’s too hard for them, too upsetting for them. They don’t care if it’s too hard for me! They’ve made him my burden. I love him, and it’s killing me. He’s killing me! Is that the truth you wanted to hear? Is it?!”

House was too stunned to respond. Where House had thought to uncover the emotional equivalent of a boiling pot, Wilson was an inferno.

“HOUSE!” Wilson pleaded. His eyes were dark and desperate. When House didn’t speak Wilson knotted his right hand and began slamming it into the wall. House realized Wilson was seeking an emotional outlet, needing to blow a fuse so he didn’t spontaneously combust. Wilson hated losing control. He had to be terrified, and if he wasn’t, House was plenty scared enough for both of them.

House grabbed Wilson’s arm to stop him from breaking his hand. Wilson froze, stood locked in place, rigid and trembling. House drew him in, much as he had back at Wilson’s place, slow and gentle, trying to change the tone. He put his lips on Wilson’s and kissed him slowly, telling himself that he’d enjoy this soon, if he just kept going. He pressed a thigh between Wilson’s legs. Wilson was frozen with tension. Then House bit his neck, and Wilson exploded. He was everywhere, rubbing, grabbing, biting, searching helplessly for something he couldn’t seem to find.

“Please, please, please,” Wilson said, until House could no longer bear the desperation in his voice and tongued him into silence. Best, House thought, to give him head. It’s quick and every guy likes it. At least that’s how it works in all the pornos. He got awkwardly to his knees. House absolutely forbade himself to get hard, and began.


	7. Chapter 7

It turned out that Wilson, even in his raging maniac caveman phase, was incapable of not giving. Too far gone even to speak, he’d nonetheless rearranged the two of them more intimately and comfortably—at least for House. Which was good because House, even in his well-intentioned caring for Wilson phase, was a taker at heart.

Afterwards House sat there uneasily on the carpet and watched Wilson sleep. House hoped he’d be out long enough for House to figure out what had happened. This was too bizarre, too large a change. He didn’t want anything between him and Wilson to change, he only wanted Wilson back to normal. But now everything was different. How had it come to this? Wilson had needed an outlet. For some reason it had come down to a choice between rage and lust. Even so, even out of his mind and out of control, Wilson had been careful of him. In fact, now that House thought back over it, Wilson had stopped the moment House pulled away from that first kiss, and hadn’t touched him again until House himself had reinitiated contact. House felt a little better realizing that, because at least one thing hadn’t changed: Wilson would not deliberately hurt him. So why had House gone along with this? That one bothered him. House didn’t do self-sacrifice. He absolutely didn’t. Except this time he had. Why? And why hadn’t he thought of any other solution aside from sex? He had Ativan sitting in his bag, he had a million ideas right now for how to calm Wilson down, but in the heat of the moment none of it had come to mind. Why? He didn’t have an answer. House suspected all that was pretty irrelevant though. The issue he was avoiding thinking about was what this would do to their friendship. He didn’t want to lose it.

Wilson stirred, looked at House groggily, and smiled. He rolled over, closer to House, and closed his eyes again. House waited, barely daring to breathe, hoping that Wilson would go back to sleep for hours.

No such luck. Wilson opened his eyes again. House watched his face go from post-fucked bliss to recollection.

“Oh God, are you all right?” Wilson came to House, wincing as he moved, nothing in his face but concern. Wilson laid a hand on House’s arm and winced again. “Did I hurt you?”

Was this the extent of the freak-out he’d been dreading? Or was that coming later?

“I’m fine,” House said. The anxiety remained in Wilson’s eyes. “Do you not remember me enjoying that?”

“You’re sure?” Wilson asked, but instead of waiting for an answer Wilson began checking him over for injuries. House let him. Wilson was on the verge of a massive guilt trip over his freak out and probably pretty upset that he’d been putting holes in the walls so close to House. If he needed a little reassurance, House could handle that better than the several days long guilt and sulking festival he’d get otherwise. Wilson, finding nothing wrong, gave House a rueful smile.

“I can’t believe I did that,” he said. “Although parts of it I don’t regret—unless it costs me your friendship. That I’d regret for the rest of my life.”

The words hit House like little hammers.

“Stop whining and let me look at you,” he said, shoving aside the way those words made him feel. Wilson’s hands were swollen and bloody. There were too many fragile little bones in there. Some were bound to be broken.

“Stay there,” House retrieved Wilson’s first aid supplies and took out two instant cold packs. He activated them and put them on Wilson’s hands. “Leave those on. We’re going to need some x-rays.”

House’s stomach was churning. He’d had sex with Wilson. He’d had _sex_ with _Wilson_. What the fuck was wrong with him? Okay, no need to panic. It had long been a staple of House’s philosophy that sex with anyone could happen once, even if there weren’t drugs involved. It didn’t have to mean anything. Wilson wasn’t freaking out over this. He was sitting calmly on the floor, doing what House told him to do. Which was odd. Or was it? House had no idea how Wilson behaved after impulsive, self-destructive sex. Which, come to think of it, was pretty much the only kind he had anymore. But Wilson over-thought everything. Why was he being so blasé about this?

“Why are you being so blasé about this?” House asked, turning to Wilson.

“Mmm?”

“We did the nasty. You should be freaking out.”

“It was good.”

Torn between pride and confusion, House chose the puzzle of Wilson’s non-reaction. “You’ve done this with a guy before,” House realized. “When? Who?”

“A couple times. High school. College.”

“Long time ago then,” House pushed. “Why are you so calm now?”

“I have better things to worry about right now,” Wilson said. “If you like, I can go into a homophobic panic later. Why shouldn’t we have sex if we want to?”

“Because we’re not gay?” It was a lame argument and he knew it.

“Please,” Wilson said. “It’s a simple biological drive, and a normal human reaction. Besides, it’s not like I don’t love you.”

 _Love?_ House thought, going still and frozen. _love?_ “Did you just say you love me?”

“Of course I love you. You’ve known that for years. I love my mother too. There’s nothing indecent about it.”

“Uh,” House said, taken aback. “This is way too Oedipal for me.” Time to change the subject. He rearranged the cold packs. A thought occurred to him. “Wait…did you just say you want to do this again?”

“Not tonight, honey. I have a headache.”

“And the idea of changing our friendship doesn’t concern you?”

Wilson’s eyes narrowed. “You’re afraid of losing me,” he said. “You think sex would ruin us and you’re scared. That’s…actually rather endearing. It’ll take some time for us to see if the sex is still good when I’m in my right mind. We don’t have to sort this all out now. I don’t think we can, anyway.”

 _What the fuck?_ House wanted to say. _Wilson, what the fuck?_ He had no idea where any of this was coming from. He didn't know what it meant or if it meant anything at all. After a moment he realized he was standing there with his mouth open, and closed it.

“X-rays?” Wilson asked, holding up his battered hands. 

Yeah. X-rays. He could do that.

 

*************

House slid in behind the wheel. As he put the car in gear, he saw Wilson give a little, soundless laugh.

“What’s funny?”

“It’s ironic. I said I shouldn’t drive before. Now I can’t. I got my wish.”

House let that hang there. The implications of Wilson’s admission and his actions back in their room ranged from the mundane to the terrifying. When they stopped at the next light, House looked over. Wilson appeared his usual presentable self, genial and tidy, until you saw his hands. House sighed. They needed to have a conversation. House hated conversations, but he was out of options. Letting this go wasn’t something he could do anymore.

“We need to talk,” House said, hating himself.

“I know.” But Wilson was silent.

“Before-” House prompted.

“Before…I’ve never in my life been so out of control. You were afraid of me.” And there was the guilt again.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Don’t lie,” Wilson shot back. “I saw your face. Do you think I ever wanted you to be afraid of me? Can you forgive me?”

“Nothing to forgive,” House said mildly. “I got you into that state. It’d be pretty hypocritical of me to hold it against you.”

Wilson looked him full in the face, deliberately lowered his guard and let House see the regret and sadness he felt. “I’m sorry.”

“I told you it’s all right.” The cars behind them honked, and House realized the light was green. “This isn’t over,” he said, handing Wilson the directions they’d gotten to the nearest emergency room. “But right now you have to navigate.”

The ER was half full. House sat down and looked around, diagnosing ten cases of the flu in about ten seconds. No, nine cases. The tenth was acute sinusitis. Wilson stood before him, waiting. House raised his eyebrows.

“You here for the scenery?”

“You want to give me a hand with the paperwork? I can’t write.”

House rolled his eyes, “It’s never stopped you before.” But he got to his feet and filled out paperwork as Wilson hovered at his shoulder to keep an eye on what House was writing. Then they sat down to wait, picking chairs in an empty corner of the place. A nurse came out and called a name. A kid with a lacerated arm went in with his father beside him.

“For the record,” House said, getting comfortable. “This is a crappy ER.”

“Tell me, oh Svengali.”

“They took a five stitch laceration before the possible appendicitis,” House motioned to a young woman who was sitting doubled over and crying. “Also, it wasn’t you I was afraid of. I just didn’t want to have to fight you off. The leg doesn’t tend to like that.”

“You can’t know that’s appendicitis. House-- would you stop me if I ever lost it that badly? Or would you stand there and let me hurt you?”

“This is a fun conversation. Excuse me!” House yelled as the nurse walked passed. She ignored him. He looked back at Appendicitis Woman. “First of all, yes. She has a fever, which you can tell from the flushing in her face if you’d look, and she’s got severe abdominal pain, which you can tell because she's doubled over and her face looks a lot like the 8 emoticon on the pain scale. That’s all the criteria I need to decide she needs to be seen next so someone can poke her abdomen. Second, you’d get one and only one punch in. Then I’d put you on the floor. Third, _you didn’t hit me_. So don’t expect me to believe you ever would.”

“I couldn’t stop myself,” Wilson said quietly into their small, private space. He sounded very upset. “I hated it. Every word I said to you was true, and I hated myself for that too. Danny--he's ill and he's in pain. None of any of this is his fault. He didn't do anything wrong. He didn't ask for this and he doesn't deserve it. I hate myself for feeling this way, I'm angry at him for making me feel it, and I hate myself more because of that." Wilson paused, took a breath. "If you hadn’t stopped me I’d have beaten myself bloody against that wall.”

“How are you now?” House asked, his throat suddenly tight.

“Better than I was." He shrugged. "You were right. Just because I understand Danny’s illness doesn’t mean I don’t get angry. I’ve been feeling guilty for every selfish thought and feeling that I’ve been having. But that’s--it's pointless. He’ll still be schizophrenic no matter what I do. That doesn’t make me a bad brother. Not doing my best for him, that would make me a bad brother. So I have to make sure I do. But that’s the most I can offer. I wish it was enough, but it never will be. And I have to think of myself. I need to have something in my life beyond Danny’s illness.” That was rational. Wilson was finally using his head.

“There she is again,” Wilson said, nodding at the nurse.

House got up and went over to her. “Excuse me,” he said loudly.

“The doctor will be with you soon,” she said, walking away.

“I am a doctor,” House shot back, and pointed at the patient. “If you don’t get that woman in next I’m going to tell the papers that your ER, and specifically you, failed to recognize a simple case of appendicitis, endangering that woman’s life and possibly killing her.”

The nurse glared at him. “Watching medical shows on television does not make you a doctor,” she said icily. But she went over to examine the sick woman. After a moment she vanished, reappearing immediately with a wheelchair and another nurse. They sat the woman down and wheeled her away.

“They had her down as food poisoning,” the nurse called over her shoulder, “and I'm not the one who triaged her.”

“You may have just saved her life,” Wilson said, as they watched the patient being wheeled away. “and you certainly saved her a lot more time in pain.”

“I was bored.”

“Appendicitis isn’t an interesting diagnosis.”

“No, but messing with nurses is fun.”

*************

Messing with the nurses was profitable as well. They took Wilson next to get rid of House. The two men emerged into the late afternoon light with both of Wilson’s hands in fingers-free casts and a bottle of Tylenol 3.

“Now I assume we go to Mercy?” House asked, opening the car door for Wilson. House seated himself behind the Volvo’s wheel and got the car started.

“No,” Wilson said quietly.

House looked over. “No?”

“I want to go fishing.”

“Fishing?” House asked in disbelief.

“I don't want to see Danny right now. I need a break. We both do.”

House considered that briefly. “Sucks, doesn’t it?”

“What?”

“Wanting to do something you are physically unable to do.”

Wilson glanced at House, startled. Then he tilted his head. “I may have heard that once or twice before, yes.”

“Can I interest you in a cripple-friendly hike instead?”

“That might do.”

House drove to the trailhead in silence. The afternoon was beautiful. The sky was clear, the air was crisp, and the leaves were changing color. House took a deep breath. The only human sounds were the muffled rush of the highway a ways back. They made it to the pond a leisurely half hour later. A family of ducks swam there, uncaring of their presence. A dragonfly buzzed past his shoulder. House found a rock to sit on. Wilson sat on the ground beside him.

“You’re still worried,” Wilson said, taking a long look at House.

“Yes,” he said simply.

“I lost it today,” Wilson said. “I nearly hit you. I’m moody, I’m...losing it. But in spite of all that, I actually feel a little better now than I have in weeks. You were right. It worked. Getting in touch with the anger purged something from me. Made it easier to live with. You obviously wouldn’t have done it if you didn’t think it would be useful.”

House gave a nod. Of course it had been useful. “Come here.”

Wilson moved closer. House put his hand on Wilson’s shoulder.

“What are you doing?” Wilson asked. “You’ve been physical lately. It’s not like you.”

House put his hand back in his lap, disappointed. He knew he’d screw this up. It’d been stupid to try in the first place. He spoke hesitantly, embarrassed now by the whole thing. “You said you needed me. I’m trying to be supportive. If you have to ask, though, I guess I’m doing it wrong.”

“No,” Wilson said gently. “You’re doing it right.”

House tentatively put his hand back on Wilson’s shoulder. Wilson let it pass without comment. They sat in easy silence, listening to the lapping of the water, the faint quacking of the ducks, and the rustle of the wind. The sun shone down on them, keeping the chill off. House could feel Wilson, warm and alive, under his hand. He wanted stay here like this forever.


	8. Chapter 8

It was evening when they returned to the hotel. Between sitting too long in the cool air and jarring his leg several times on the walk back to the car, House was in a lot of pain. He lay down on his bed, willing the drugs he’d taken earlier to kick in. He was trying to decide what impact Wilson’s Tylenol 3 would have on his Vicodin when he heard Wilson on the phone ordering room service.

“What the hell are you doing?” he shouted. “Don’t use those hands tonight.”

“You expect me to wait for the cranky cripple to feed me?” Wilson asked, hanging up. “I’m hungry. You could use some food too, you know. It might make you less grouchy.”

“Yeah, Sherlock, I’m grouchy because I’m hungry,” House snapped. “It’s got nothing to do with pain.”

Wilson made an exasperated gesture and vanished into the bathroom holding a book. “I’ll just be in here,” he called from the shelter of the other room. For that House took one of Wilson’s pills. Wilson had better not be in there opening his arteries, because if House had to get up before the drugs kicked in, he might just help.

When room service came Wilson had them set up on the bed so House could reach everything without moving. House, watching him bustle, was pissed. He was perfectly capable of walking to the coffee table by their couch.

“I hate eating in bed,” he complained. “It’s messy.”

”Yes, I know how important neatness is to you,” Wilson answered, deadpan.

“It gets crumbs everywhere. And things spill on the blankets.”

Wilson sighed in annoyance.

“If I wanted to eat in bed, I’d eat off your naked belly.”

Wilson blanched, glancing at the waiter.

“But that would be even more wobbly than the mattress.”

“If you’re not hungry,” Wilson said, “don’t eat. But don’t ruin the meal for me.”

“I didn’t think there was anything that could make you miss a meal,” House shot back.

“Certainly not your lame attempts at wit.”

“Cripple jokes. Nice.”

The waiter left them then, more swiftly than he’d entered. Wilson sighed again. He sat cross-legged on the bed.

House sat up and took his plate. The pasta was good, the soda was cold, and after eating for a few minutes he felt some of his irritation pass. Wilson sat eating his steak and salad in silence. House saw a glint of red. There were tomatoes in Wilson’s salad. House snagged one and popped it in his mouth. When they were done, Wilson awkwardly poured a glass of water for himself.

“How’s the leg?” Wilson asked, taking a sip.

“Still there.”

“I owe you something from before.” Wilson’s smirk alerted House, but he took a moment to figure out what Wilson might mean. Unable to come up with anything, he looked up in puzzlement.

“And?”

Wilson smiled and lifted his glass in a toast. Instead of drinking or lowering the glass he swung it out in a long arc, throwing water on House’s chest and spreading the rest out over his bed.

"You jerk,” House said, but he was laughing.

**********************

House was tired long before the bedding was dry. Wilson was brushing his teeth, and House took advantage of his absence to slip into his bed. Which might really have been what Wilson had in mind in the first place, but House was tired enough not to care. Unfortunately he couldn’t even try to sleep yet. He sat propped against the pillows instead, waiting as Wilson made his way to bed. There was a pause when he saw House but he climbed in under the covers without protest.

House took a deep mental breath. He’d been putting off talking about the damn knife, hopefully forever, but in light of Wilson’s sudden propensity for beating the crap out of walls forever had turned into today. And he was running out of today.

“Are you still suicidal?” House asked.

Wilson went very, very still. “How did you know?”

“I found the knife. In your apartment,” he added senselessly, because House had already searched everything their first night here and knew perfectly well Wilson hadn’t brought any kind of blade.

Wilson sat up, staring intently at House, putting the pieces together. “That’s why you insisted on sharing a room. You’ve been babysitting me,” he accused. House didn’t deny it, just met Wilson’s agitated gaze with his own. Wilson looked away.

“I didn’t want you to know,” he said. “I wasn’t going to do it. It’s just—thoughts, urges. It’s not as bad as it sounds.”

“Really,” House said. He didn’t want to talk about this. He did _not_ want to talk about it. But he needed information, and Wilson…he thought Wilson needed to say the words. “So answer the question. Are you still?”

“No, of course not,” Wilson said, with an easy sincerity that chilled him.

House glared.

Wilson looked down, frowning. Then he looked back again. His fingers were twitching. He was profoundly uncomfortable. "Not really. A little.”

“That’d be a yes, then.” Hearing that shouldn’t be so painful, should it? Since he’d already known? “Tell me.”

Wilson stood, moving restlessly in the half-light. “I don’t know what I might have done last week. You said yourself I was self-destructive. Yes, I still have some of those feelings now, or at least I did earlier today. And before you drive yourself nuts wondering, I’ll tell you that I was going to pound my head into the wall when I was done with my hands, but then again I knew you were right there and that you’d stop me. Earlier I made you drive because I think I would have crashed the car. I won’t apologize for not telling you before. I know what a burden it is to look after someone in this state and I never want to do that to anyone. But I can promise you now that I won’t do it.”

“When did this start?” House asked. He ignored the promise. He didn’t trust Wilson.

Wilson turned to the window, his back toward House. “The depression’s been building for about a month. Last week is when I—when it got this bad.”

When it became clear he wasn’t going to say any more House asked, “Because?”

Wilson turned to House. “I just-“ he sighed. “I hated myself. I’d been up here all weekend with Danny. I’ve been spending every weekend here, actually, but this last one was worse. You saw what he’s like. He wanted to die. He tried to die, and he was angry with me for not letting him go. He asked me to-to kill him.” There was a world of bewildered hurt in Wilson’s voice. “I can’t take his pain away and I can’t let him go.” Wilson took a breath and got himself back under control. “I got back early Monday morning and went straight in to work. It wasn’t the best day.”

“Because?” House asked again, and then remembered how involved in not-Ebola guy he’d been. Wilson had tried to talk to him a few times, but House had been wrapped up in his patient’s bizarre symptoms and hadn’t listened to anything.

“You were busy. Every time I turned around you were at the whiteboard. We had lunch together but you got called away ten, fifteen minutes in. And I —I knew you’d track me down eventually, but…”

“But you needed me then,” House finished for him.

“Yeah,” Wilson agreed.

“I’m sorry,” House said then. “You know I get wrapped up in these things.”

“I know,” Wilson said, smiling a little. Then Wilson’s eyes went all soft and House could see he was headed for an emotional moment.

“What?” he asked brusquely, hoping to head Wilson off.

“Egocentric bastard,” Wilson said, with deep affection. House couldn’t help but smile back. Then he realized what Wilson, that rat bastard, was doing.

“Stop deflecting. Tell me about Monday.”

Wilson’s smile fell away, and his hand touched the back of his neck. He looked silently at House for a long moment. Then his hand returned to his side and he gave a little nod.

“I have several terminals. Two patients had died over the weekend, too. So I sat there in my nice comfortable office in my nice comfortable chair treating their charts. I realized that I have the same choice in their treatment that I do with Danny. I can either help them die, or I can help them live a little longer in a very great deal of pain.” Wilson’s tone changed. House heard anger. “I hate making that choice. I’m sick of having my life be composed of people I get to hurt.” Wilson turned away, said more calmly, “I saw you later in Cuddy’s office. I watched you. You looked happy. I want that for you. It makes sense for you to be with her, even if that means I’d miss you. I’m just feeling selfish because I’ve lost so many people, and now I’m losing Danny all over again. That’s not your problem. I don’t want to stand in your way. I just don’t want to be left behind.” Wilson paused long enough that House drew breath to speak. Before he could, Wilson added, “I suck at marriage, and at being a brother, and apparently I also suck at being a friend. So it’s really no wonder I end up alone. I keep failing the people I care for. I’m failing you again right now by telling you this.”

“I already knew,” House reminded him. Hearing Wilson talk this way, hearing the despair in his voice, brought a whole new kind of pain. “And you know, or you should, that most of this is the depression talking.”

“I—do, actually,” Wilson said, fidgeting with their laundry pile. “Intellectually. I know I’m not thinking clearly. I just can’t help how I feel.” Wilson turned his back. He began to pile their dirty clothes but stopped abruptly, loosely holding a sweater. He dropped it and turned suddenly, decisively, back to House.

“Monday night I was going to slit my wrist. I got into the water, and I sat there with a-a damn paring knife against my arm. A paring knife,” he said, laughing bitterly. “Isn’t that pathetic? I thought about everything. All the times I’ve screwed up, everyone I’ve let down, and I wanted—at that moment I really wanted—for it all to be over. I hurt, and I’m alone. I’m a failure. Then I remembered that there are still people I care about. I couldn’t do that to them. Tuesday I came in like it was any other day.” Wilson paused, added helplessly, “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“So it was just Monday night,” House said, ignoring the pressure in his chest, ignoring the burning in his eyes. Wilson shook his head slowly. No, of course it hadn’t been only the one night. “I came close a couple times after that,” Wilson admitted. “Then I just stopped going into the bathroom. I figured it was safer that way, because I had to leave the knife in there. If I’d picked it up to put it away… I wasn’t sure I’d put it back down.”

He’d come so damn close to losing Wilson.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“You idiot!” House spat. Of all the illogical, self-destructive, passive-aggressive, absolutely moronic things he’d ever heard, this one was the winner. “You don’t think killing yourself would hurt me more?”

“I’d never have done it.”

“Don’t lie,” House said roughly, as pain flared in his leg. “You had a knife to your arm in a bathtub! That’s more than thoughts and urges.” He remembered Kutner. “Would you even have left me a note?” he asked bitterly.

“House,” Wilson said, in what was probably supposed to be a reassuring tone. This hurt much more than House had thought it would. He’d promised not to abandon Wilson, but Wilson had been planning to leave House in a way that House could never have fixed. Then he really would have been alone.

Wilson sighed. “Yes, I wrote you a note. I wrote three of them. That’s how I stopped myself. I knew I had to write to you before I could do anything. And when I’d written enough…I got to the point where I knew I couldn’t do it.”

House could imagine it. He could see Wilson sitting at his desk, still in his work clothes, scrawling a note filled with platitudes and misdirection while in the next room the water slowly rose.

“I want to see them.”

“No you don’t.”

Yes, actually, he did. He damn well wanted to know what had been going through Wilson’s head. He wanted to know what Wilson thought he could possibly say to make up for running out on him.

House got up and took a pill to dull the agony in his leg. Besides, as much as he wanted answers, he did not want to have this conversation sober. He poured a drink to keep the pill company. “You wrote them for me,” House said, holding onto his temper with both hands. “I want to read them. As soon as we get back, I’m going to.” He drank, savoring the angry burn of the alcohol as it slid down his throat. “I want to know what the hell was going through your mind.”

“You’re pissed at me?” Wilson asked incredulously. “I can’t believe you. You’re actually pissed. Only you would make this be about you.”

“Stop it.”

“I’m depressed to the point of suicide, and you are making this be about you?”

“You selfish bitch!” House yelled, and hurled the glass with all his strength. It hit the far wall. The glass shattered; tiny shards fell in a sharp, brittle rain. Wilson jumped at the crash. Even in the dim light of the room House could see he’d gone pale.

“Of course it’s about me,” House said angrily. “You think you can just off yourself and it’s okay? You think it wouldn’t affect anyone? That no one would miss you?” Wilson was shaking his head in denial, but House didn’t pause long enough for him to speak. “Think we’d all just cry for a week and then forget you? You think—you think your parents would ever get past this?”

“Don’t-” Wilson protested.

“Or your brother? Think he’d be happy to know you chickened out? Or Danny? You think he could cope with losing you?” Wilson gave an odd strangled sound then, but House didn’t care; he was so fucking furious. “Your nephews adore you. They’d be devastated and they’d be at higher risk of suicide themselves.”

“Stop.” Wilson was hoarse and breathing hard, leaning against an end table.

“Your uncle has a heart condition, how many years do you figure you’d have taken off his life? Your staff, Cuddy, my team…what did you think this would mean to them?” House was yelling now and it felt so good to get this out, to see Wilson hunched over and hurting the way Wilson had hurt him with this suicide crap. “You think you can just run out on them, just fucking give up? Did you even think about what this would do to your cancer kids, when they have to fight for every lousy day they have and then their hero doctor throws his time away? Did you care about any of them at all? Did you for one moment think about anyone but yourself?!”

Wilson made an awkward gesture. House stopped, aware that he was being just as selfish as Wilson, and not caring. He drew breath to continue and heard a whimper. Wilson had a hand pressed to his chest. He was having another panic attack. Damn. House ran, cursing his slowness, cursing his leg, for the Ativan. Wilson was pale and hyperventilating.

“Lie down,” he ordered brusquely, pushing Wilson onto the bed. House jabbed the syringe into his butt. Tactile therapy, House remembered. He monitored Wilson’s pulse with one hand and put the other between his shoulder blades.

“I gave you Ativan. It should kick in soon,” he said, keeping his voice even with an effort. “Try to relax as much as you can till then.” House knew he was probably supposed to say something reassuring right about now, but all the words he had for this were curses. He rubbed Wilson’s back a little instead.

“I’m sorry,” Wilson mumbled into the sheets several minutes later.

“You better be.”

Wilson’s pulse jumped. House was pissed, but he couldn’t yell at Wilson now. He patted Wilson’s back instead, watching as he relaxed and his pulse slowed. Wilson sighed and mumbled affectionately, “Egocentric bastard.”

House bowed his head, feeling some of his anger fade. “Jerk,” he said, with as much warmth as he could muster. It wasn’t much.

“Together we can rule the world,” Wilson said, quoting House’s words of a few years ago. “Think we still could?” Wilson was practically drooling. His pulse was slowing and his eyes were closed. It was possible House had miscalculated the dosage. Wilson would be asleep within minutes.

“Maybe tomorrow, champ.”

Wilson gave a little grin. The next time House checked, he was asleep. House left him there. He got out the hotel notepad, and slowly began to write. Finished, he set the paper aside and lay down beside Wilson. The other man didn’t wake, but rolled over and stretched his arm across House.

House tried to relax. He couldn’t get comfortable. Data points swirled through his head, facts he’d collected throughout the day. Wilson admitted he wasn’t in his right mind. Wilson loved him. Wilson suggested they have sex again. Wilson was still suicidal.

What the hell was he going to do?

Part of him wanted to run. Just leave now while Wilson was sleeping and go back to his home and his job and his life. This was too crazy, too complicated. House was going to get hurt. He followed the scenario through, imagined Wilson waking to find him gone. Imagined the look on Wilson’s face when he realized House had left.

Okay, not an option.

That meant House stayed. And did what for nine days? House had figured that more time with Danny and House would put some of Wilson’s demons to rest. He hadn’t realized quite what a train wreck the psycho brother was. So, the treatment wasn’t working…or was it? Wilson had said he felt better. House had seen the improvement too, until today. Maybe this could still work.

House was exhausted. Wilson’s arm lay like a bar across his chest. House moved it. He could never sleep with someone lying on him. He shifted away a little and stretched his arm out over Wilson’s head, trying to get more comfortable. His mind wandered to their earlier conversation, right after Wilson had awakened half dressed on the floor. He wondered whether Wilson honestly thought House was scared of losing him if they added sex to their friendship. As if that were the only reason House would shy away from a physical relationship with him. It was ridiculous, all of it. He was concerned, not afraid. House didn’t need anyone. Half the time he didn’t even want anyone around.

Wilson’s eyes began to dart. It had been a long time since House watched someone dream. _Bunnies_ , he urged Wilson silently. _Think of bunnies_. The Playboy kind or the fluffy kind, he didn’t care which. He waited carefully until Wilson cycled out of REM. Then he closed his eyes and slid wearily into the dreamless dark.


	9. Chapter 9

Wilson sat propped up in bed, reading the book of poetry his mother had sent him three weeks ago, her unspoken apology for refusing to help out with Danny. He had packed it with no intention of reading it—he had the latest Tom Clancy for that-- but for some reason this morning he’d felt pulled to the slim volume. Wilson hadn’t entirely forgiven his parents, but he knew they’d never change. At least the poems were good. He’d take what he could get.

House lay snoring beside him. Wilson felt a stab of shame. Yesterday had been hideous. He’d expected House to take off running after Wilson’s stupid, ridiculous behavior. That House hadn’t meant there was something powerful keeping him here, and Wilson had the nasty suspicion that it was fear. Was it that which had led to House sleeping beside him? He had expected House to take the bed for himself and make Wilson sleep on the couch. Or was this part of the whole supportive friend thing House was experimenting with? Either way, Wilson had no complaints, but he needed to find some way to reassure House.

He also needed coffee. Wilson glanced around, looking for a scrap of paper he could use as a bookmark. He found some folded papers on his bedside table, under his watch. Wilson frowned. He hadn’t put that there. Unfolding them, he saw they were titled Reasons For Wilson To Live. House had listed out every single thing he knew Wilson liked, from the curve of Irene the waitress’s ass, to a long list of old movies, tennis, monster trucks, and incredible satisfaction of sending patients home to live. He’d also written out the names of everyone he knew Wilson cared for. He read the list slowly, smiling in places but increasingly puzzled. House hadn’t listed himself anywhere, not once, even though he’d carefully listed out all the things they did together. Then he saw the three little words House had written about himself, crammed into the last remaining space on the last page, as if he were ashamed to write them and fearful of their reception: House Needs Me.

 _Oh, God_. He’d hurt House. Maybe not physically, but he’d hurt him nonetheless. Wilson wanted to wake House up and hug him, tell him this would all be okay till he relaxed and went back to being the sarcastic, selfish bastard Wilson loved. But he knew that would never work. Instead Wilson got up to make coffee, selecting a dark Starbucks roast that he knew House preferred. Today, he decided, was going to be House Day. Danny was safe and he’d be okay for 24 hours without his brother. Wilson had work to do.

Wilson poured himself a cup of coffee, got comfortable in bed, and went back to his book. It didn’t take long for the coffee’s aroma to rouse House. Two pages after Wilson had sat down, House began to stir. Wilson handed over the mug and a Vicodin.

House blinked at him, half awake. He washed the pill down with a gulp of coffee, and raised his eyebrows in appreciation. Drinking some more, he asked, “Were you waiting for me to get up, or are we having quiet time in bed?”

“Yes, and yes, if you like.”

“You’re agreeable.”

“The last few days have been hard. I thought you could use a day off,” Wilson said, taking back the mug and draining the last of the brew.

“Me,” House echoed in disbelief. “And that was gross.”

Wilson rolled his eyes. “You. This has been awful, but I’ve had you supporting me. You haven’t had anyone. So, I figure, today is House Day. We can do whatever you want.”

“Why? Feeling guilty about yesterday?” House asked suspiciously.

“Because you need it,” Wilson told him. “And of course I feel guilty. I almost hit you.” _And I think I hurt you more than you’ll admit_. 

“Okay,” House decided, and settled beside Wilson. “Go get ready.”

House’s agenda included a large breakfast, mini golf, two afternoon soaps, ice cream sundaes, a few games of pool, and Wilson’s phone remaining off. House relaxed, though not enough. Wilson kept catching House glancing away from him. House was watching him. Being observed or even stalked by House was normal, but this watching was furtive, nervous, and decidedly abnormal even by their standards.

When they got back to the room it was late. Neither of them was tired enough for bed. Instead they sat on the sofa watching the Colbert Report. House kicked off his sneakers and put his feet up on Wilson’s leg. Wilson gave a little laugh, and rested his hands on them

“Good day so far?” Wilson asked.

“So far,” House said. “Don’t ruin it.”

Don’t talk, he meant. But Wilson was going to talk whether House liked it or not. He needed to fix what he’d broken. Wilson moved House’s feet off his lap. House made a sound of protest.

“Look at me,” Wilson said.

“I’m not going to like this, am I?” House asked, staring fixedly down at his lap.

“I know I scared you yesterday,” Wilson began, projecting all the sincerity and reassurance he could. “I know I’ve been scaring you for a while now. But you don’t need to be scared. I’m not going to kill myself. I’m not leaving.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” House interrupted. He got to his feet and walked away, but there was nowhere for him to go. He stopped when he got to the wall, stood staring blankly at the paint.

“I’m all right,” Wilson continued. He had many years of practice in ignoring House’s walls, not to mention the barbed wire and Keep Out signs.

House planted his palms against the wall and bowed his head.

“I haven’t been myself the last few weeks,” Wilson went on. “Everything hit me at once and I wasn’t strong enough to handle it. But even with that, nothing happened except I broke a few hand bones. That’s it. That’s all. I’m fine.”

“Shut up,” House said, way too quietly.

“I’m okay.”

“Yeah, you’re just peachy,” House said. He moved into the bathroom. Wilson followed him, put a hand on his shoulder. House swung around and stepped away from Wilson. “Save those sweet, soothing lies for your wives. I know you better than that, and I don’t want to hear any of your bullshit. You’re suicidal. You came very close to killing yourself and you still might. Don’t you dare pretend that doesn’t matter. Now get out unless you want to watch me take a dump.”

Wilson hesitated.

“Get out!” House yelled. “Out! OUT!”

Wilson left.

He had pushed too far, he knew. He wanted House to stop being so scared and he’d come on way too strong. He knew how to handle House better than this. Wilson just wanted to make this better so badly that he’d messed everything up. _Great work_ , Wilson chided himself. House had been enjoying himself. Now he was miserable. 

Wilson felt the sadness pressing down on him. This was his fault, and it hurt. Everything hurt. He’d screwed up, again, and hurt House--again. Why could he never get this right? He wanted to climb into bed, pull the blanket over his head, and shut out the world.

No, Wilson decided. House had accused him yesterday of selfishness, and he’d been right. He wasn’t going to be any less depressed in bed than he was standing here amidst the wreck he’d made. _You hurt someone, you fix it_ , he told himself ruthlessly.

“In the last ten or so years,” Wilson said, walking in on House, “I have once or twice handled things between us worse than this, but not by a lot.”

House stood watching him.

“You got me confused with your brother,” he said, which was as close as he would come to accepting Wilson’s apology out loud.

Wilson shook his head. “No, not everything is about Danny. You’ve been pushing me for the last week. You’ve made me see things I didn’t want to see. You’ve opened places up inside me that I’d forgotten had ever existed. It’s been good for me. I wanted to do you the same favor, because I don’t think you realize just how scared you are right now. But I forgot that we’re two different people, and that there are ways you shouldn’t be pushed.”

House gave a sharp nod. “Bed?” he asked.

Wilson followed him out of the bathroom and into bed. House didn’t make any comment as Wilson curled on his side a few inches away. Wilson waited a few moments to be sure House wasn’t going to toss him out. He wasn’t sure whether he was happy or disappointed when House remained silent.

“Are you pissed?” Wilson asked.

“I’m tired,” House said sharply, and turned on his side with his back to Wilson. The message was clear, and at any other time Wilson would have been annoyed. Now, though, it was an immense relief to have the normalcy of House snapping at him. “I know you push,” House added a few minutes later, “and you know I resent it. When you lie to me, I resent it more.”

Wilson hadn’t lied, but he understood how House could have seen it that way. He thought of apologizing, something he’d done as much of in the last seven days as he had in the last seven years, but it seemed pointless. It wouldn’t fix anything. There was simply something broken about him that he could so consistently screw everything up. House knew this, and stuck around anyway, and for that Wilson was grateful.

“I know I suck at this,” House said.

Wilson’s throat ached at the quiet resignation in House’s voice. Depression sucked him down, but he couldn’t let it swallow him yet. He couldn’t let House think any of this was his fault, couldn’t let him lie there hurting. Wilson reached across the distance between them, ghosted his hand across House’s shirt. He could feel the tension in the back and shoulder muscles. He’d helped put it there, and damned if he wasn’t going to help make it go away.

“No. You don’t,” Wilson told his brilliant, arrogant, insecure friend. "Can't you tell it's working?"

Many years ago he’d taken a class in pressure point massage, and he’d kept in good practice because women loved it. If he were careful he could use it on House without injuring his hands. He found the spot for the trapezius and pressed. House grunted as the muscle spasmed and then relaxed. Wilson found the next spots, on either side of the neck, and began to slowly work his way across House’s back. He gave the cane shoulder extra attention, knowing it was often tight and painful. House sighed as the muscles unclenched. Minutes later he was asleep. He looked tense even in his sleep.

Wilson had done that. Depression lay on him, heavy, smothering, but he knew it now for what it was, and refused to allow its influence to go unchallenged. If he had upset House, he reminded himself, he had also helped him to rest. He knew, too, that House wanted honesty from him now, even if he didn't much like the truths he heard. Wilson slipped his arms around his sleeping friend, held him for a few moments in his damaged embrace. Then he loosed House. He lay awake for a long time, staring out the window at the night.


	10. Chapter 10

“Gimme your phone,” House demanded as he parked the car in Mercy’s lot. Danny had been in the psych. ICU ever since his episode at North Woods two days ago. They had a meeting in fifteen minutes with his team, and House wanted to be both entertained and well-armed.

Wilson handed his iPhone over. House photographed everything they passed, including the receptionist at the main hospital entrance who obligingly posed with Wilson, her red hair cascading like a river of flame along his green shirt. House hustled them along before she could get Wilson to an altar.

They had to wait outside the ICU doors to be let in. There was nowhere to sit and nothing to do, only an alcove to stand in. Wilson peered through the glass for a few minutes, trying to spot his brother or just taking a look at the place that had been Danny’s home for two days now.

“I was thinking I could have Danny discharged to me,” Wilson said casually, still peering through the glass. “I could enroll him in the day program at PPTH and hire home care to help out with him when I couldn’t be there. He’d do better with me than in a facility with strangers. I’d be nearby in case he needed me. I think some semblance of family, some normalcy, would be good for him.” Wilson looked down, and then quickly back at House. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re telling me this so I can talk you out of it because you know that it’s an insane, guilt-driven, self-destructive idea,” House said. He went on more quietly, “I also think you want to help him. But you can’t. Pretending you can only makes you feel better. It isn’t what’s best for Danny and it isn’t healthy for you.”

“I could do this,” Wilson protested. “I could make this work.”

House sighed. “Look at your hands.”

Wilson looked down. His face went white as his casts.

The door opened. A middle-aged black woman greeted them. “I’m Ms. Lawson, the supervisor here. We’re ready for you.” 

House paused in the day room and took several quick snapshots. He spotted Danny pacing furiously and muttering. Lawson paused.

“You can visit with your brother first. It might help him.”

“Yeah,” Wilson said drily. “That seems likely.”

“Just knock on the window when you’re ready for us,” Lawson told him, ignoring his sarcasm.

Wilson stood beside House, watching Danny pace and mumble. The other ICU residents gave him a wide berth. Wilson took a deep breath, plastered his doctor face on, and moved slowly forward.

“Danny?” he called softly.

Danny spun towards Wilson. He strode toward his brother.

“Jimmy, you have to get me out of here!” he began. Danny talked nonstop, jumping from subject to subject faster than House could follow. Danny became louder, yelling about softball and aliens and a staff member at North Woods. Wilson stood there and took it, nothing but careful sympathy on his face. Then Danny burst into wild laughter. Without thinking House moved forward to stand beside Wilson.

“She stole my five dollars!” Danny shouted. Wilson shifted his weight over so his shoulder lodged against House’s. House went carefully still, stood gripping his cane tightly while Danny became more and more agitated. At about the point that spit was actually flying from Danny’s mouth some staff members came over to remove him. The young man took a swing at them and was dragged away.

House glanced at Wilson. He leaned stiffly against House, his eyes full of words he wouldn’t say.

“You okay?” House asked.

“Yeah,” Wilson said, and the walls came back up. He stepped away.

House followed Wilson into the small fishbowl of an office. It was the size of his own conference room and packed with six people, a nursing trolley and patient charts. Lawson introduced a woman from admissions, the ICU psychiatrist, and the social worker. They sat down. Wilson glanced nervously at House, and House shook his head.

 _Don’t do it_. 

He fidgeted with the phone. Wilson stiffened as House began taking pictures again. Admissions Woman told them that Danny’s inpatient coverage was used up, and he had to be discharged tomorrow.

“What?” Wilson spluttered. “You can’t! I-he-did you see him out there? He’s completely psychotic.”

“There’s nothing I can do,” she told them. “His stay has been denied. It’s hospital policy that, if he’s no longer a danger, he be discharged so we can free up the bed.” She walked out. House took a picture of her backside.

“So what’s going to happen?”

The social worker’s thin lips tightened. “As I was saying, Dr. Wilson, Daniel will return to North Woods tomorrow.”

“That’s your plan?” Wilson asked. “That’s it? He’ll be back here in days, and eventually Medicaid will stop paying entirely. I’m sure you don’t want that, because you’ll still have to hold him for three days every time he comes in here suicidal.”

He turned to the psychiatrist. “Why the hell haven’t you put him on injectable medication?”

“The patient is receiving medication.”

Wilson leaned forward and raised his voice. “He’s spitting out his meds. That’s why he’s here and that’s why he’ll come back. Give him his medication by injection and you just might not see him again. Don’t, and…and he’ll really kill himself next time.”

There was a short silence. “You have to do it,” Wilson pleaded.

“All right,” the psychiatrist said. He scrawled an order in Danny’s chart, and rose. “I hope you’ll excuse me, I have another meeting. He can start the shots this afternoon. He’ll go to North Woods just after lunch tomorrow.”

House saw Wilson gather himself to speak as the psychiatrist left. House jumped in.

“Isn’t there some alternative to the home? Didn’t I see a sign for a partial day hospitalization program?”

“We’re full,” the social worker said. “He-

House smiled. He was going to enjoy this. “You know what’s cool about working in a hospital? You learn all these useless things. For instance, my boss—she’s a hardass. About a month before inspections she goes nuts, has departments do walk-throughs of other departments. Kind of an internal inspection. It's a complete waste of my time, but I’ve been doing it long enough to pick up on some things. For instance, see the sharps container on the nursing trolley over there? I took a picture of it. The lid is fastened wrong. That’s a violation right there. The fine is pretty hefty too, isn’t it? Can’t remember how much it is, that part’s not really my thing. I also notice that the place for your fire extinguisher is empty. That’s a violation too. It’s a good thing no one is going to call OSHA and JCAHO to report it, isn’t it?” He looked up impishly, snapping the social worker’s photo. “Right?”

“Actually, I just remembered that we do have an opening. I’ll get working on the referral for a residence,” the social worker said, turning to Lawson. “Onnesta is close enough to us.”

Wilson leaned over and spoke under his breath. “You really are the master.”

 

***************

 

Wilson slid into a booth at Moran’s, the pub near their hotel. House slid in beside him, scooting over too far and trapping Wilson between himself and the wall. Wilson shot him a glare but House knew it was just for show. He didn’t even try to free himself.

“Hey, boys. Haven’t seen you for a few days. Want your usual?” Irene asked in greeting. Twenty-eight, with curly dark hair and an incredible figure, she never failed to lighten Wilson’s mood. Except at the moment he wouldn’t look at her, forcing House to place their order. Irene smiled at Wilson and swished away.

“You going to talk to me?” House asked when she’d gone.

Wilson didn’t answer. He stared morosely at the table top. House leaned against him a little harder. Wilson glanced up, eyes dull with fatigue and sadness. He seemed to draw strength from somewhere. He tugged at his sweatshirt, smoothing it down. “You’re right,” he said quietly. “I can’t handle taking care of him. This never ends. There’s no cure. He’s just going to suffer like this for the rest of his life.” He stopped talking abruptly as Irene approached.

“Here you go,” she said, setting out their order.

Wilson, his mask firmly in place, gave her a smile and thanked her.

“You have something here,” she said, and brushed a piece of fluff off Wilson’s chest. Slowly.

House wondered exactly how many minutes it would take for her to bleed to death if he were to rip her hand off.

“Thanks, Irene. This idiot,” Wilson gestured at House, “would have let me walk around like that all day.”

“I have to run. The lunch rush should be over soon. I’ll come back then.” She wrinkled her nose, showed off her perfect white teeth, and left.

Wilson raised his beer in a toast. “He deserves better.”

“Don’t we all deserve better than we get?” House asked. They clinked bottles and drank to it.

Wilson drifted away into his thoughts. House amused himself by building sculptures out of sugar packets.

“How are you doing?” Wilson asked him, drifting back to the present. “This can’t be easy for you.”

“Easier than the alternative,” House answered around a mouthful of cheese fries. “As soon as I found that knife, life got very simple. I have one rule for the duration—you get what you need.”

“And when the duration’s over?”

“Remains to be seen, my dear Wilson,” House replied in a horribly fake English accent.

“You do know I’m not leaving, right?” Wilson asked, once again ignoring the fact that neither of them knew any such thing.

“The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

“Remind me not to drink any wine with you.”

“You’re casting me as Claudius?” House shot him a dirty look. Wilson threw some fries at him. The cheese caught in House’s hair. House glanced down at his beer. Wilson had drained his, but House had some left. He looked up at Wilson.

“Oh, no.” Wilson said. “No you don’t.”

House emptied the beer over his head. Wilson toweled his hair dry with his sweatshirt while they argued. It was so familiar, this back and forth banter. He’d missed it. This was their old friendship, before Middletown, before Wilson fell apart, as comfortable and familiar as an old pair of jeans.

They agreed on Cameron and Chase for Rosenkrantz and Guildenstern, Taub as the vengeful ghost, Foreman as Polonius, and Thirteen as Ophelia. Wilson put Cuddy as Gertrude, House as Hamlet and himself as Horatio, while House cast Wilson as Gertrude and couldn’t cast himself at all, which Wilson insisted loudly meant House had to be Claudius. House nervously skirted the whole Cuddy issue. Wilson didn’t call him on it.

Wilson was peeling the label off his beer when Irene returned. She handed House a drink to keep him quiet, and seated herself across from Wilson.

“You seem down today.”

Wilson smiled at her and swore he was only a little tired. Then he got her talking about herself, her sick aunt and Jack Russell terrier. House shifted aside, leaving Wilson room to lean forward and gaze sympathetically into her eyes. House hated watching Wilson flirt. It had used to be amusing sometimes, before. Before Wilson began crawling into his bed. Before they’d had sex on a hotel floor. But those things were meaningless to Wilson. If wedding vows weren’t important to him, a roll on the floor certainly wasn’t going to be. Irene laughed and flipped her hair. Wilson gave a low chuckle. House felt his blood pressure rising. 

“I don’t remember seeing your price on the menu,” House told Irene. “How much for a lay?”

Irene’s gaze flicked to Wilson, waiting for him to defend her. Wilson remained impassive. Irene flushed. She raised her hand to smack House.

“Hey!” the manager called, striding over. Irene gave House a poisonous look even as the manager hustled her away. “Never come back here,” she told them.

“Let’s get out of here before she comes back with reinforcements,” House said. Two other waitresses were already hovering near Irene, looking increasingly angry.

Wilson glanced over at the group of women. He took out a wad of bills, tossed them on the table, and lead the way to the car. Interestingly enough, Wilson didn’t seem upset. He didn’t give a damn about Irene, House knew, not really. Not when it counted. 

_Let that be a lesson to you_ , House told himself.

“That was rude,” Wilson said finally as they drove away.

"I just saved you from some STDs and a paternity suit. You could show a little gratitude.”

“Maybe,” Wilson acknowledged.

“You feeling okay?” House asked, startled by this easy capitulation.

“I’m tired.” Wilson looked exhausted. There were bags under his eyes, and lines on his face. House knew it was more than physical tiredness that made him seem so worn down.

“You suicidal again?”

“I’m fine,” Wilson said, but he was staring out the window.

“I didn’t ask if you were fine,” House replied, because Wilson would smile and swear he was fine if he were being mauled by Rottweilers.

“I’m all right,” Wilson said. “Don’t worry.”

“I didn’t ask if you were all right and I didn’t ask if I should worry. Answer the question.” House enunciated carefully, “Are you su-i-ci-dal?”

There was a pause, and then Wilson said, “Not right now.”

“Before?”

“Just a little.”

House’s stomach clenched. He could lose Wilson right here, right now, tonight. There were three ways to die in their hotel room, and even House had to sleep sometimes.

“You don’t have to fix everyone all the time. The world won’t end if you put yourself first now and then.”

Wilson gave a quiet laugh. House remembered that Wilson’s world could end with nothing more than the click of a phone disconnecting.

“Danny’s stronger than you think. He survived all that time alone. He’ll survive now too.”

Wilson looked over. “Are you sure about that?” he asked darkly. “Because I’m not.”

“What I’m sure of is that he needs you strong. You can’t be strong like this.” Wilson didn’t reply, but he looked thoughtful. Maybe House was getting through.

“How bad is it?” he asked, getting out of the car.

Wilson shook his head. “Not bad,” he said as they walked through the lobby. He waved at Chuck, the chain smoking bellhop who’d scrounged up a poker game for them one evening. “If you weren’t here…but you are. So it’s okay.”

“If I wasn’t here you’d have some woman with you and you’d be fine,” House scoffed. If Wilson had come up by himself he’d have bedded Irene by now.

“No I wouldn’t. I’d just act fine. Besides, I wouldn’t want anyone here but you.”

“Why not? Ladies would line up to have a chance to soothe your tortured soul.”

“Because, as crazy as it sounds, you’re the only one I trust.”

“You really are screwed up.”

“Yeah,” Wilson said. He didn’t sound all that unhappy about it.

 

*******************

 

When they went to bed Wilson again climbed in with him. House wasn’t sure if this bed sharing was more annoying, frustrating, or pleasant, and the fact that part of him found it pleasant was enough to panic him if he let himself think about it. He wasn’t sure whether Wilson simply craved the human contact, or whether he was hoping for a pass. Part of him was enjoying this closeness. That was a very bad thing. He felt open, vulnerable, and that meant he was going to get hurt, because one way or another Wilson was going to leave him. Wilson was going to back off. When he returned to normal he’d be unhappy with how far he’d opened up and close down even farther. And Wilson was going to move on because he was never faithful. He was in love with being in love; flirted with whoever showed him attention, fell effortlessly, in less than twenty- four hours, from giving a woman a lift home to moving into her bed. House was just a challenge, the latest mountain to climb, and as soon as the shiny newness of this all wore off Wilson would be gone.

House couldn’t let that happen. Having Wilson hare off after the babes was acceptable within the confines of their friendship. Having him do it if they were sexual partners would be unbearable. It would break House. He couldn’t let that happen, no matter how tempting it was.

Tempting?

House sighed. Yes, he was a little in love with Wilson. He wanted…wanted so many things. But he was never going to get them. Best not to think about it.

“You are going to leave me,” he told the man sleeping at his side. “You are.” _And I’ll miss you_ , he added silently. Wilson moved, and House froze. Wilson looked up at him, alert. Awake.

“Oh crap,” House cursed.

“You don’t listen very well, do you?” Wilson asked. “I used the word ‘not’ for a reason, you know.”

“You,” House said, gesturing at him, “are not in your right mind.”

“Granted. Go on. I’m curious to see where you’re going with this, because even you will have a hard time going from not leaving to leaving. There’s that whole antonym thing to contend with.”

“All of this,” House said, “this talk of love and the sex and all the touching…it’s because this is a weird time. It takes six to eight weeks after a crisis to return to normal. When we get back home, this’ll embarrass you and you’ll pull away. You’ll never want me to be this close again. If we do the sex thing it’ll be even worse. You’ll jump headlong into the bed of whatever woman smiles at you first, and I won’t have you as a friend anymore. I don’t want that.”

“Did you just tell me, admittedly in the most backhanded and obscure way possible, that you like me holding on to you and being all touchy-feely with you?” Wilson asked.

“Don’t change the subject.”

“Wasn’t that the subject?”

Wilson was being deliberately difficult. House turned away. He felt as if every nerve had been flayed open and was bleeding.

“What will it take for you to trust me?” Wilson asked. House couldn’t answer that, couldn’t see it happening. Not with the million Irenes and Julies and Ambers in the world. They lay quietly. Just as House began to hope that Wilson had either given up or fallen asleep, Wilson spoke again.

“I have no intention of spending the rest of my life without your friendship. How about this? We drop the entire sex thing until after we’re back. We don’t mention it. We don’t do anything about it. We wait a solid week after we get back to town. Then if either of us wants to investigate that avenue, we bring it up. Otherwise we never need to discuss it again. We can pretend it never happened. That’s not actually why I keep joining you in bed, either. But if it bothers you I can,” Wilson paused, the reluctance audible in his voice. “I can move back to my own bed.”

It would be easier if he let Wilson move. It would de-escalate these insane feelings he was having, this self-destructive desire to touch and be touched. That’s what whores were for, not friends. But he liked it. Liked this dangerous feeling. If he didn’t, it wouldn’t be dangerous.

“Why are you here?”

“I sleep better here,” Wilson said softly.

“Because?”

“Because on my own I wake up and can’t fall back asleep. If I’m with you that doesn’t happen as much. Also-- because I don’t want be alone.” Wilson’s voice changed on that last reason, got darker somehow, lower. “I’m sc--lonely,” he added, very softly.

House tried to follow the drift of his words and felt chilled. “Then you stay,” he said, tangling his right leg between Wilson’s legs. If Wilson got up during the night, whether to pee or to slit his wrists, the leg would tell him. They lay in uncomfortable silence for a while.

Wilson spoke finally, sounding very drowsy. “If the committed monogamous junior prom thing bothers you, bear in mind it doesn’t have to be that way.”

“You’re thinking, what? Uncommitted fuck buddies? You want permission to cheat? What rationalization are you working on?”

“I’m not,” Wilson said. “I’m looking for a way to make this less threatening for you.”

“Sex without strings.” House said.

“Yeah,” Wilson answered.

“That’s different from love.”

“Love is a many-splendoured thing,” Wilson answered. “I love you no matter what we do in or out of bed.”

“Wow. You just completely butchered that lyric.”

“I’m tired. Give it a rest,” Wilson yawned. “So is what I suggested an acceptable temporary solution? Because right now I would really like to get some sleep.”

“Sure," House said. He’d agree to anything right now to shut Wilson up. His heart felt like a tightly clenched fist, and he didn’t want to talk anymore. He had given all the answers he was capable of. It would have to be enough.


	11. Chapter 11

A new facility meant a new McDonald’s. Onnesta, an adult residence named for the town it was in, was much closer to Mercy than North Woods had been. The very first thing Danny had done on their very first outing was to scout for fast food. He’d found the closest McDonald’s and declared Onnesta a fine place to live. Wilson figured that if you spent years of your life eating trash, finding a place where food was cheap and plentiful would be pretty reassuring.

“How are you liking Onnesta?” Wilson asked over his Quarter Pounder. He asked Danny the same question each day. So far Danny was honeymooning, liking the new place, his new roommate, Patrick, and the partial day hospitalization program he was in. Wilson knew that this period wouldn’t last forever. He was dreading it’s end.

“It’s great,” Danny said, and began to describe the recreation room with great enthusiasm. The honeymoon wasn’t over yet. Wilson relaxed. Beside him, House was writing on a napkin. Wilson wasn’t sure if his friend was writing dirty limericks or the floor plan for Fort Knox, but it was at least keeping House entertained during their visit.

Danny got up to get a refill on his soda. Wilson, feeling himself being watched, turned to House.

“You’re looking chipper,” House said sarcastically, then sobered. “He’s doing better. You should be happy.”

“I am,” Wilson said. House looked unconvinced. “I just…" he sighed. "It’s temporary. It’s always temporary.”

“All the more reason,” House said, leaning forward and swiping a handful of Wilson’s fries, “to enjoy it while you can.”

House was right, but Wilson honestly didn’t know how to do that. When Danny had first become psychotic, Wilson had believed that the doctors and the drugs would cure him and give him back his little brother. During college he’d come to realize that Danny would probably never be cured and that little boy he’d loved so much was gone. Wilson had taken care of this new crazy Danny as much from love as guilt, but even as a med student he’d lacked the perspective to understand just what it meant to live with a debilitating chronic disease. It meant forever, and he hadn’t understood what forever meant back then. He did now. This was it, this was all there was for his brother, the best of what he could expect for the rest of his life.

_Splat._

Something hit him in the face and plopped down onto the table. A fry. House had thrown a fry at him, and judging by the wet feeling on his face it had been thoroughly covered in ketchup. He looked up. House was grinning widely. Wilson grabbed the fry before House could reclaim it and popped it into his mouth.

“Hey!” House said indignantly. “Get your own!”

“That one was mine.”

“I stole it fair and square.”

“And I stole it back,” Wilson said smugly, and snagged another one from House’s stash.

Danny sat back down and stared oddly at Wilson. “Use your manners, Jimmy” he said, handing over a napkin. “Clean the ketchup off your face.”  
Wilson did, smiling in spite of himself.

 

***************************

 

They returned home a few days later. House's home, because he insisted, and Wilson didn't push. 

On their first night back House came out of the kitchen to find Wilson putting sheets on the couch. House asked him why he suddenly wanted to sleep alone. 

“You…want me to?” Wilson asked, gesturing at the bedroom. 

“If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” House replied with a carefully nonchalant shrug. There was no way in hell was he going to allow Wilson to sleep alone. He’d gotten accustomed to monitoring Wilson’s awakenings and he wasn’t going to stop now. 

“O-kaaay," Wilson said. "You can stop worrying, you know. You found me in time.”

“Doesn’t mean I will next time. So I don’t want there to be a next time.”

“You are still worried,” Wilson accused.

“I’m going to be worried for a long time,” House admitted, which was more honesty than he’d given anyone in ages.

Wilson nodded. "Okay," he said again. House braced himself but Wilson had the sense to shut up and unpack. House did a quick survey of all the dangerous things in his condo. He locked away the drugs, all but the one bottle in his pocket. He locked away all the kitchen knives as well. There were other things that could be used to kill yourself with—the electrical appliances for one—but House couldn’t possibly lock everything away. Besides, House wasn't going to allow Wilson any time alone in the apartment. Maybe in a few weeks House would reconsider, but for now he’d appointed himself Wilson’s own personal suicide watch, and Wilson wasn’t going anywhere without him.


	12. Chapter 12

Ten days later Wilson sat at his desk at PPTH, reading over the latest labs on his patient. It had been nineteen minutes since Thirteen had popped her head in to see if he wanted anything run to radiology, which meant he was about due for another House call.

Twenty minutes.

His pager went off. Wilson walked into Diagnostics.

Foreman sighed. “Again?” 

“Our patient has a mole,” House said. “I thought we’d have an oncologist take a look at it. Cancer would explain the white count.”

Wilson picked up the chart, glanced at the photo of the mole and at the bloodwork, and tossed it all back down.

“It’s not cancer,” he said, and seated himself at the table.

“Why don’t you just move in?” Foreman asked. 

Wilson suppressed a smile. It was kind of fun to have everyone so off balance. House’s team kept staring at him when they thought he wasn’t looking, and Cuddy had taken to making comments about Siamese twins whenever she saw them. Fortunately his own staff was far too disciplined to care what he did so long as his work got done, and it always did.

“Good idea,” House chirped. “Why don’t you?”

“Okay.”

Foreman threw up his hands. “Because he already has his own office!”

“Now you’re just acting jealous,” House chided. “Afraid Daddy will love Wilson more than you?”

“Ever since you got back from vacation you’ve been inseparable,” Taub said dryly. His eyes flicked to Foreman. “It might be annoying to someone who felt insecure.”

“It doesn’t bother me,” Thirteen said.

“It’s unprofessional,” Foreman argued.

“And destroying the reliability of a drug trial so you can slip your girlfriend the right pills is practically the definition of professional,” she argued back.

“It’s my office," House said, "and I get to say who I share it with. Now go stick needles in our patient.”

The team left. Hadley and Foreman kept Taub carefully between them.

Wilson asked, “Were you just torturing Foreman or do you actually want me to move in?”

“Both. Were you serious about doing it?”

“I could do my paperwork in here,” Wilson said, because being under House's nose might help settle him down. Might help both of them, actually, because he'd gotten used to having House with him every moment and he kind of missed it. “For a little while, anyway, if you could clear a space for me.”

“So” House said, changing the subject now that he’d gotten his way. “Are you going to tell me how the conference call call went or do I have to call Onnesta myself?”

“He’s doing well. The director said he’s developing a real friendship with Patrick. He’s eating, he’s sleeping, he still likes the day program, he’s even talking in group therapy. He seems…happy.” Wilson seemed happy too. Changing Danny’s medication had made a world of difference. The hallucinations were gone, and he’d regained some impulse control. “When the partial day program discharges him they are thinking of trying to get him a job bussing tables.”

“You’re happy that your brother is going to be bussing tables?”

“It beats eating out of dumpsters.” Wilson stood. “I have a patient."

 

*****************

 

Wilson sat at his makeshift desk in House’s office, finishing up a chart note. Paperwork had become a lot easier since Chase had swapped his casts for splints of his own invention. House was in the clinic, which meant Wilson was due for a page any minute now. House was keeping him on a short leash. It was damned endearing—or it would be if it didn’t mean that House was still scared. Wilson had no idea how to reassure him anymore. He was being as honest with House as he could be, far more than he’d ever been with anyone in his adult life, but House dismissed his words and didn’t trust his promises. He knew it was actions House cared about, but it was impossible to prove something wouldn’t happen through actions. The best he could do was prove that it hadn’t happened _yet_.

He thought he had enough time to start reading up on the new glioma protocol results. He turned to his laptop, exited the screensaver, and frowned. His email was open. It was as good as a yellow sticky note saying ‘House was here.’ Wilson scrolled through his inbox till he found the email from Dr. Ng at Sloan-Kettering. He began to read. Before he could finish, his pager went off.

Wilson found House in Exam Four.

“Need a consult,” House said in greeting and indicated his patient, who was sitting on the exam table with his leg elevated. The ankle was swollen and tender.

“Sprained ankle,” Wilson said. “Take two ibuprofin, ice it, and stay off it for the rest of the day.”

“Thanks,” House said in exaggerated relief. “Didn’t want to get that one wrong.” House leaned out the door and called his next patient. Wilson began straightening up. They’d just had another memo about the importance of presenting a professional atmosphere to patients, and how could they do that when the supplies were low, the counter stained and the cotton balls out of line with the tongue depressors?

 

**************

House had been wondering which of them would crack first under all this togetherness, and how long it would take. To his surprise they lasted until Sunday evening, two weeks to the day since they’d returned to Princeton.

“What?” Wilson asked, his face a study in irritation, and tossed aside the journal that House had been watching him read. “I’ve moved into your office. I’ve moved into your home. I eat with you. I sleep with you. I spend my free time with you. Yet you look at me like I’m about to bail. I told you I’m not going to kill myself. I haven’t felt suidical in over a week. What is the problem?”

House gave a rueful laugh. “I keep thinking you’re doing better. Then I remember Kutner.”

Understanding flooded Wilson’s face.

“So then suddenly,” House continued, “I’m not that sure anymore how you are.” House rested his chin on his cane, thinking back. “I knew something was going on, you know. I meant to get it out of you that night. But then Cuddy came over and I got distracted.”

“She is magnificent,” Wilson offered.

“That she is,” House agreed. “But I let myself lose focus. When you left like that…I knew something was wrong. I knew it was a cry for help, but I let you go. I enjoyed my flirtation and I figured, well, I’d see you tomorrow. I had no clue that there might not have been a tomorrow. Then you didn’t come in, but I was wrapping up a case and got sidetracked. Finally, after I got Mr. Munchausen’s squared away, I went to your place. I’ve never seen you so depressed. You actually expected me to leave you alone like that, and I knew I'd given you reason to expect it.”

Wilson shook his head.

“It doesn’t matter what you tell me now,” House continued, “because I know that you are capable of lying to me. I know people can hide things, huge things, from me. I have a gift, but it’s limited and sometimes when I need it most it fails. Maybe because I get distracted, I don’t know, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that I need to trust that you’ll still be here in the morning. Right now I can’t. I don’t.”

Wilson was quiet then, thinking. “I made you a promise,” he said. “I meant it. What would it take for you to trust me? I am good at lying. Sometimes. But I’m not lying now. I didn’t kill myself, and I won’t. I will tell you what’s going on with me.”

“No you won’t,” House dismissed. “You never tell anyone what’s going on with you voluntarily. You’re not about to change that now. Your first line of defense is to shut me out. Which is both self-destructive and futile.”

“Yeah. I hide.”

“So I repeat, how can I trust you to still be here in the morning?”

Wilson made an aimless gesture. “Maybe it will come in time?”

“Yeah, and meanwhile I drive you away by stalking you.”

“I like you stalking me,” Wilson said, startling House. “It’s how I know you see me.”

“So you want me to keep this up?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve liked being with you. Yes, I want you to keep it up. I want you to check on me and oh so subtly test my mood. I want you to lock up the drugs and the knives, make invasive phone calls, go through my email, badger my assistant… I want you to hover a little. I want to think that it matters a little to someone somewhere how I am. What I don’t want is for you to be this worried all the time. This won’t work if you can’t trust me.”

“I know,” House said. “How do we do this?”

Wilson didn’t answer. Neither of them knew. House sat, trying to pound his brain into providing an answer.

Wilson gave a little gasp and stood up. “I’m an idiot,” he said. “Maybe it’s a coincidence. But there’s something else we haven’t discussed, and trust is a big factor there too. So maybe there is a connection.” He looked excitedly at House.

“You want to talk about this now?”

Wilson nodded intensely. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.” He met House’s eyes. “Can you trust me enough to add sex or something to our relationship? Either every so often or…more?”

“What are you saying? Stop being vague. If you want something, say so.”

“At least I am saying something. You, on the other hand, are avoiding saying anything.”

“You are changing the subject. Throwing sex into the mix isn’t going to solve anything.”

“Really? When’s the last time you had sex you didn’t pay for, besides with me?”

“When’s the last time you had sex with someone you didn’t cheat on or cheat with, besides with me?”

“There we go,” Wilson accused. “You think I’ll cheat on you so you don’t want to do this. You won’t trust me enough to take a chance.”

“Pretty small chance,” House said. “Considering the three failed marriages, and untold number of girlfriends, yeah, I think you would mess around on me. I also think that I’d rather be your friend than one of your exes.”

“This is insane,” Wilson said, yelling in frustration. “I don’t even know how I feel about you and I’m arguing in favor of us having sex again. I must be out of my mind!”

“Or very horny,” House added helpfully. Wilson shot him an exasperated glare.

“I just think that if we could work on trust in some area, it would spill over into other areas.”

“Fine. If you insist, we can try this. But on my terms.”

Wilson looked suddenly hopeful. “What are your terms?”

“First of all, we tell no one, and we don’t fool around where we might get caught. When this doesn’t work-“

“ _If_ this doesn’t work” Wilson interjected.

“I don’t want everyone to know what an idiot I was.”

“You really have no faith in me at all.”

“I have no faith in anyone,” House returned. “And when I say no one, I mean it. You don’t tell your family, or your next wife, or anyone. Second, don’t make me any promises. I don’t want to hear all that love crap. You’re free to pursue any woman you want, and so am I. We come back to each other as we choose, with no strings and no regard for other relationships no matter what the Rabbi makes you swear. This agreement takes precedence. Finally, when you fall in love again you will stand up to her for me and make time for me. Twice a week isn’t too much to ask and I shouldn’t have to ask.”

Wilson thought about that, and for an endless moment House figured he’d refuse, which meant the sex would never happen again because as far as House was concerned none of that was negotiable. Then Wilson gave a decisive nod. “Okay.”

“That’s it,” House said. “We have a deal.”

“Two more things,” Wilson said, “you agree to the same rules, and we can renegotiate at any time.”

“Fair enough. But my terms won’t change.”

“We can argue about that later. What about Cuddy?”

“You think I have answers?” House asked. “Have you not been paying attention?”

Wilson’s lips quirked into a smile. “I mean what are you going to tell her?”

“You really haven’t been listening, have you? We just agreed not to tell anyone.”

Wilson’s lips tightened. He said nothing, but he looked pissed. As if House had some master plan somewhere that he was refusing to share. As if he had any answers at all.

“Don’t freak out on me,” House told him.

Wilson watched him for a moment. Then he said, “I have no right to ask you this, but I want to know. It's okay if you don’t want to tell me, though. Are you going to start dating her now?”

“No,” House answered, realizing the truth of it as he spoke. He needed to get this Wilson thing settled before he complicated his life any more. “I can't decide anything about that yet.”

Wilson nodded and looked away, mulling that over, or more likely obsessing. House hated that. He threw a pen at Wilson. It hit him in the face. Wilson jumped.

“What now?” House asked.

“I have no idea,” Wilson replied, spreading his hands.

“Fine. It’s late. I’m going to bed.” House stood up, and started for the bedroom.

“Way to sweep me off my feet,” Wilson complained.

“Hey, you’re the panty peeler. I’m just the drug addict. Seduction isn’t my specialty.”

Wilson broke into a smile, “Oh, you want to be seduced?”

“I didn’t say that,” House protested. Wilson moved towards him.

_Oh shit._

There was a terrifying softness shining in his eyes. _Shit shit shit_. 

“You look ridiculous,” House said as his heart began to race and Wilson came closer. “You look like a fucking cocker spaniel.” 

Wilson wouldn’t be baited. He moved, slowly crossing the distance between them. House felt his heart contract. He couldn’t look away from those eyes. He’d expected lust, or something predatory and gleeful. It wasn’t there. Wilson was looking at him with affection, with a heart melting softness, almost like--No, it was fake, part of the Dr. Pantypeeler persona. It had to be, and House had to remember that. How was he going to remember that? How was he going to remember anything when Wilson’s fingers were _there_ and his tongue did _that_?

“I don’t have condoms,” House said in a last ditch effort to control this thing. He leaned away from Wilson, but Wilson followed him. House grabbed Wilson’s shirt, intending to push him off. In just a minute. In just. A minute. He wanted, and this felt good, felt so good.

“Relax,” Wilson said.

House wondered if Wilson knew he was lying about the condoms. He wondered if Wilson could feel him shaking. “You taste terrible. Did you forget to brush your teeth again this week?”

“It’s okay,” Wilson told him. He was amused by this, damn him, and his wicked fingers kept moving, making it harder for House to breathe, and oh…damn…

He had to focus, had to. “I can’t believe women fall for this,” House said dismissively, and then ruined it by gasping. “Or is this the version for guys? How do you even keep track of who you’re fucking? Should I get a nametag?”

“House, it’s okay,” Wilson said again, with the same sincerity that he showed every woman he fucked and then fucked over. “It’s just me. It’s just us.”

 _It’s just sex_ , House told himself. _Stop it or enjoy it, but let it go. It means nothing._

“Maybe I should get my number tattooed on my dick,” House said, and he had to stop this, but he was clinging to Wilson and his spinal nerves were at war with his brain and his hands were shaking and he was cold. He was cold. “What am I, the six hundred and forty first? It’s so hard to keep track.”

“Hey,” Wilson said, sounding genuinely concerned. “It’s all right.”

House’s defenses were cracking like old rotten ice. “You don’t mean this,” he breathed. “You don’t want this. You don’t want me.”

“It’s all right.” And there was that note in his voice, the one reserved for the spikes of House’s pain, the one that meant Wilson got it. “House. You’re all right.”

“You can’t possibly--”

“It’s okay.” The spinal nerves were winning. “Trust me just a little, just for right now. Everything’s okay.”

No it wasn’t okay, nothing was okay, and no he wasn’t all right, no this was going to hurt because no it wasn’t just sex no not with Wilson it couldn’t be casual because he needed Wilson no he loved Wilson and for anyone else that would mean they should do this but no not for him, “why do you always do everything ass-backwards?” they always asked, but no that was who he was, upside down and backwards and forever tumbling on his head because their stupid rules didn’t make any damn sense, never had and never would maybe he was the crazy one or maybe he was just the honest one but either way he wasn’t going to change but Wilson knew that, yes knew him and stuck around anyway and yes cared about him and even trusted him, yes Wilson had let him far, far inside and yes Wilson took care of him in his own screwed up way and yes he wanted this yes wanted to feel good yes wanted to feel close and Wilson. Yes.

 

****************

 

When House could move, he staggered into bed. Wilson came and lay beside him, looking insufferably pleased with himself.

“Wow,” House said, when he trusted himself to speak again.

Wilson’s grin widened. “Wow,” he agreed.

“Why didn’t we ever do this before?” House asked.

“Because we’re not gay?” Wilson offered. They both laughed. “Do you really want to do this again?”

House shrugged. “I-- wouldn’t hate that,” he said. “Do you? Want to do it again?”

Wilson fit himself against House’s side and dragged the blankets over them both.

“Yeah. I do.” Wilson said. Watching House, he added, “You’re even more scared than I am.”

House looked away because Wilson was right, but Wilson wasn’t putting up with his avoidance tonight. He straddled House and gave him a long, searching look. He was going to offer platitudes, reassurances and promises House couldn’t believe, and he didn’t want to hear it.

“Don’t,” House said impatiently.

Wilson laid his fingers across House’s mouth to stop him. He leaned down till his forehead rested against House’s.

“I’m right here,” Wilson said, very gently.

House felt something crack inside himself. He brought his hands up and cupped Wilson’s face. Wilson pressed his lips to House’s forehead, giving him without words the promises he had been wanting. Warmth kindled in House. He had no assurances, but now, for the first time since this began, he had hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With apologies to James Joyce.

**Author's Note:**

> My fic, Echolocation, is a loose sequel to this story.
> 
> Thanks: go out to fourleggedfish and srsly_yes for their help and encouragement. 
> 
> Disclaimer: House, M.D. belongs to David Shore, Universal Television, Heel and Toe Productions, and a lot of other people who are not me. I'm not making any money from this.


End file.
